Collateral Damage
by Daenar and AeroGirl
Summary: On parallel missions to a region gripped by war, two officers are forced to risk their own lives -- and each other’s -- to protect the lives of countless innocents.
1. Chapters 1 & 2

'COLLATERAL DAMAGE' Authors: AeroGirl and Daenar  
Email: michaerogirl@hotmail.com and daenarchurill@hotmail.com  
Website: aerogirl.dhs.org and www.daenarsjagfanfiction.com

Disclaimer: JAG is property of Belisarius Productions, CBS and Paramount Pictures. No copyright infringement intended. 

Rating: PG-13 for violence  
Classification: JAG Story, Romance (H/M)  
Spoilers: Everything up to mid-season 8.

Summary: On parallel missions to a region gripped by war, two officers are forced to risk their own lives -- and each other's -- to protect the lives of countless innocents. 

Authors' Notes: This story alternates points of view by chapter, with the exception of one chapter that alternates more than once. Dae wrote one person's POV: AG wrote the other. We leave it to you to figure out which is which. Not that it should be too hard, considering AG's mild fixation with a certain character ... 

The basic premise that begins this plot has its origins in reality. Three ships really did leave port in Iraq this winter without a clear destination or cargo, causing confusion and some concern. Beyond that point, though, "ripped from the headlines" takes a break, and fiction steps in. The story is set at the beginning of the recent conflict in Iraq, and therefore ignores the end-of-season story arc in Paraguay. (If you'd care to think of this as a more shipper-centered stand-in for those eps, go right ahead, because there are some basic similarities. But this was conceived quite a while ago, so we had no intentions of borrowing too much from the show.) 

A disclaimer seems appropriate: though we are focusing on an al Qaeda cell and its associated motivations, we have no wish to imply that Islam and terrorism must go hand in hand. Quite the opposite, as we hope the ending will demonstrate. If our portrayal offends anyone, we sincerely apologize. 

  
Now, the thanks. 

_From AeroGirl_ - Dae, you've been an absolute joy to write with. Thank you for trusting me to do justice to your idea. Your friendship is truly one of the best things I ever could have hoped to get out of this hobby, and I will forever admire your strength and your outlook. 

_From Dae_ - AG, I feel incredibly honoured that you agreed to work this out with me. Few things have happened to me in the fanfiction world that I've enjoyed so much as I have this truly inspiring cooperation. But there's more: just when we had decided to get started on this project, RL suddenly knocked me off the track big time. You managed to get my thoughts off the bad things and helped me come back to my normal self. Although we're oceans apart, it felt like I had a kindred spirit right next door. Thank you a million times for being such a good friend, I really owe you, my dear. 

  
And, of course, thanks to Valerie and Heather for beta-reading! 

******************************************************** 

**Chapter One**

The loud clicking of the door behind me made me sigh contently. It was the audible line that I had gotten used to mentally drawing under a day filled with an intense workload, the sound that always marked the beginning of my 'Hard Day's Night,' to cite the Beatles. The one moment I looked forward to each day, because it meant that I could finally breathe and be myself again. 

True, the real relief would still have to wait a little. As long as I wasn't home or, to be exact, in the place that I had accepted as 'home' for the time being, I would still have to be on my guard. But deep inside, I felt that the sound of the key turning in the rusty lock of the school door was tantamount to being at least free to let my thoughts flow in whatever direction they liked - which was mostly west, to a place thousands of miles away, where a pair of blue eyes would just now be perusing some file; where a warm, velvety voice would just now be trying to coax information out of some frightened person; where a noble, crystal-clear mind would just now be engaged in the quest of serving truth and justice. I'd never have imagined how badly I would need this one image in front of my inner eye to keep me from slowly going insane. 

Briefly closing my eyes, I savored the feel of the gentle evening breeze on my face, before I gave in to the inevitable and pulled the thick cloth of my _Chador_ in front of my mouth and nose. This would be a beautiful spring evening to take a walk alongside the Potomac. But as it was, it would be just another beautiful spring evening to be confined to my house. Just another spring evening in western Afghanistan. 

1823 Local - 1353 ZULU  
Suburbs of Zaranj  
Afghanistan "Maryam!" 

I turned my head in the direction the voice had come from. The old white pickup with the red half-moon painted on the hood had pulled up about thirty yards down the dirt road, right in front of Mr. Salimi's tailor shop. Leaning against the passenger door was my husband, impatiently motioning for me to join him. I flung my bag over my shoulder and hurriedly complied, throwing him a subdued _"Mote asefam!"_ to apologize for letting him wait. 

Just before getting in the car, I made another silent apologetic gesture and slipped into the shop. The owner's face lit up upon seeing me. The distinguished old man in the decidedly western-looking light suit immediately put away what he was working on and walked towards me with the help of his cane, the impressive polished brass knob shining. When I had first known Ahmad Salimi, I had been very astonished about his appearance. But as we had soon gotten to like each other - unlike many locals, I was a well-dressed woman under my _Chador_ and knew about style - we had often had nice conversations about society and I had soon learned that Salimi had perfected his skills in Europe with a London high-society tailor, back in the golden sixties when the former Afghan king had still tried to open his country to the west, before the Soviet occupation and the Taliban. 

As soon as the post-Taliban law had permitted him to cut his beard and turn back to the clothes he had come to like in Europe, Salimi had returned to his old habits and had even found a way to obtain a subscription to the International Herald Tribune. With me, he talked in Farsi, of course. He had no way of knowing I spoke English. 

_"Mrs. Goshtasbi, it's a pleasure to see you,"_ he addressed me in his melodious Farsi, handing me a parcel that contained the new shirt I had ordered for my husband three days ago. _"What else can I do for you?"_

_"Nothing right now, Mr. Salimi, thank you,"_ I answered, smiling. _"My husband will come to see you next week for the new jacket we talked about. Would that be all right?"_

_"Of course, ma'am."_ Noticing the nervous glance that I cast out of the window, Salimi's expression turned a little compassionate. _"You don't have time for a little tea today, I assume?"_

_"Unfortunately not. Next time, I promise."_ I paid for the shirt and turned to leave. 

Salimi insisted on walking me to the door and held it open for me. _"I am looking forward to it. Good bye, ma'am."_

_"So am I, thank you. Good bye."_ I gave my old friend a last friendly nod and then mentally prepared myself to face my husband's anger. 

The pick-up's motor was already running. With a scowl, my husband opened the passenger door and roughly slammed it shut as soon as I had climbed aboard, not caring that part of my _Chador_ had ended up between the door and the doorframe. At least I was allowed to sit in the driver's cabin. After all, things had changed a little once the Taliban regime had been defeated. Thus, the life of Mrs. Vajih Goshtasbi was something I could handle enduring. 

I barely had the time to take a firm hold on the handle above the side window before my husband forcefully stepped on the accelerator and, with screeching tires, sped off, leaving a cloud of dust in the street behind us. 

During the entire ten-minute ride, neither of us said a word. My husband never spared me a glance. Once again, I firmly tucked my _Chador_ in place, wincing at the sound of ripping cloth as I tugged a little too forcefully at the side that had caught in the door. My husband only frowned. Finally, he came to a rough stop in front of our small house. Yanking my door open, he again impatiently called out to me. 

"Maryam!" 

Suppressing a sigh, I got out and let him usher me through the door. As soon as I was inside, he turned and firmly locked it. Only then did he take off his traditional cover, throwing it on the low table and letting out a deep breath. 

"How was your day, ma'am?" 

In the fraction of a second, Vajih Goshtasbi had reduced to the mere initials of his name. The Red Half-Moon charity worker from Isfahan wouldn't be needed any more right now. Smiling easily, Victor Galindez stepped up behind me and took my _Chador_ away as I let myself fall onto the couch. 

"Thanks, Gunny, same as always." 

"Same here, ma'am," I heard him agree from the adjacent room, my bedroom. 

"We still need to work on your 'a', Gunny," I called back and had to grin as I heard him sigh. 

"Yes, ma'am," he said obediently, returning into the room and sitting down himself. At least he had somehow gotten used to moving about the house without always jumping to his feet whenever I got up or waiting to be offered a seat. That was quite an achievement, given the fact that we had only been 'married' for about four weeks. 

"You know, Gunny, I understand that for you, being married to me may be easier if you keep on pronouncing my cover name like some slurred 'ma'am', but I think you should reconsider your priorities on this point." I couldn't quite keep the smile out of my voice. 

"Yes, ma'am." The Gunny's voice wasn't entirely sober either. He met my mock frown with a guilty grin of his own. Shaking my head, I got up and went into the kitchen to prepare dinner. 

Generally speaking, I had no reason whatsoever to complain about my private student. As long as I kept overlooking his reluctance to leave off the formal address due an officer, he was diligent and had, in amazingly little time, reached a fluency in Farsi that enabled him to pass for genuine Iranian, as long as he pretended to be one of the glum and seldom-speaking kind. In the evenings, we still employed a considerable amount of time to smooth and polish his pronunciation and just keep talking, but I had to admit that by now, Gunnery Sergeant Galindez would beat any of the most ardent students in the district elementary school when it came to doing a grammar test or writing a story. 

When Webb had first briefed us about our mission, which was to infiltrate the local al Qaeda cell and find out about their plans, I had all but laughed in his face at the idea. Only the fact that the conversation had taken place in Admiral Chegwidden's office, my CO being present, had prevented me from bursting out laughing. An elementary school teacher, me? Married to Gunny Galindez who would have to pose not just as a member of the local Iranian minority but as a charity worker from Iran itself? Impossible. Utter madness. Well, Webb. Still, although I despised him for it, Clay had once again been proven right. We could in fact pull this off. People respected Vajih Goshtasbi and included him into their social lives. And Maryam Goshtasbi had soon become a well-liked guest in every housewife's tea circle, being a rather elegant woman from the big city of Isfahan. We only hoped that our efforts would soon begin to pay off. Life was beginning to get boring as hell. 

I had admitted to Harm in one of the few cherished emails that I had been able to send that I had actually come to like being around the kids of my class. I had been assigned the first grade, thirty children about the age of six, luckily including girls as well as boys. Not that I'd have been afraid to put up with a bunch of children who already knew their teacher to be inferior to them because of her sex. After all, who better than a female Marine officer to know about prejudices? But still, having girls around rendered school life a whole lot more agreeable. Not only could I count on having a few allies, but I could also do some good and try to help them brace themselves against the society in this 'Man Country,' as Harm had once so eloquently put it. 

Of course, whenever he got the chance to get in touch, Harm would mercilessly tease me about having found my true mission in life. And as I told Gunny when, every once in a while, undercover life threatened to squash my real personality, these little episodes that I lived at school, the little joys, the hidden heartaches of my students and my efforts to mend them if I could, were the only things that helped me think straight. Everyday routine was becoming overwhelmingly monotonous at times, being forced to play the dutiful Muslim wife. I needed every straw of diversion that I could get my hands or mind on, including the aforementioned images of my best friend on Earth doing all by himself what we usually did together. At least, in his last email, he had between the lines admitted that he missed me, too. There's indeed something to the concept of sorrows shared being sorrows halved. 

While I was at school, Gunny was working at the nearby Red Half-Moon base, coordinating the distribution of food donations with an efficiency that fatally resembled that of a U.S. Marine organizing an office full of military lawyers. Webb had picked the ideal job for him. He got in touch with all the local VIPs, including those who only thought they belonged in that category. Gunny's police background had proven indispensable in this respect. He was used to seeing people for who they were. As he pointed out to me, there wasn't too big a difference between people fighting for some influence in a small American rural community and people doing the same in the suburbs of a mid-sized Persian-Afghani town. The Gunny had a trustworthy gut feeling for the characters of the people he came across. This would surely come in extremely handy one day. I was glad that he was in this with me. 

We were about halfway through our curried chicken when a sharp knock at our door startled us. I rushed to get my _Chador_ even though we were at home. You could never know if there was a man in front of your door. I wouldn't want to offend any visitors by forcing them to see my face. Afghan law permitted women to go without the traditional _Burqa_ ever since the Taliban had been chased away. But as a good Iranian housewife, I knew when my _Chador_ would be required. Wrapping myself in the warm, black woolen cape, I sat down at the far side of the room, pretending to knit and hoping that whoever came to visit wouldn't notice that I didn't have the slightest idea about what I was doing. 

Galindez opened the door. From the corner of my eye I noticed two middle-aged men, clad in local costume, but obviously belonging to a slightly wealthier class of society than the average population of the district. Their clothes seemed less worn-out and shabby. Gunny reverently bade them come in and accommodate themselves at the table. Then he sternly looked at me. 

_"Maryam. Tea."_

I nodded acknowledgement and withdrew into the kitchen, keeping my ears open, praying that Gunny wouldn't choke on his Farsi. We had never yet received a social call this late in the evening. I couldn't fight the feeling that things were finally beginning to get interesting. While I was waiting for the hot water to turn the right color, I listened intently. 

_"Vajih, you know my brother Rokneddin,"_ said the elder of the two men whom I knew to be called Kourosh Maghari. Gunny had told me that he was the head of the district's fire watch. 

_"Yes, I do,"_ Gunny answered in perfect intonation, if maybe a little slow. _"I am very pleased to finally meet you in person."_

_"So am I,"_ Rokneddin replied in an amazingly melodious voice. I decided to choose this moment to carry the tea inside, rather than risking an interruption of any vital conversation. Putting the tray down, I nodded silently and became invisible again. 

_"Although we always like spending time with you,"_ Kourosh continued, getting straight to the point, _"You may have guessed that this isn't a strictly social visit."_

Galindez waited. 

_"We... uh... believe that you and some of us.... share a few fundamental convictions,"_ Kourosh ventured cautiously. I felt my hands starting to sweat and tightened the grip on my knitting needles. 

_"In what respect?"_ Gunny only asked, careful to keep his tone respectful. 

_"As to how Allah wants this world to be,"_ Kourosh answered enigmatically, casting a pointed look in my direction. 

Gunny instantly understood. _"Maryam,"_ he ordered, _"Leave us."_ I did. In my room I pressed my ear to the wall to catch any words. They went on very low, but they obviously hadn't counted on my Recon-trained ears. 

Rokneddin took over. _"There are a lot of people around here who devoted their lives to Jihad. Apt men who are convinced that the rightful leaders of Holy War aren't to be found anywhere in political positions. That the only righteous way to follow Allah's command is to follow his appointed warrior who has already fought so many glorious victories against the unfaithful."_

_"Osama Bin Laden,"_ Gunny cut in in a low voice, apparently intimidated by the fact that he was indeed about to be invited to join the cohorts of our sworn enemy. 

Rokneddin had paused to let the news sink in. _"Look, Vajih, Jihad needs people like you. People with organizing talent, with capacity of reasoning, with authority. We hold out our hands to you, asking you to join our brotherhood of faith and honor. But be warned: we only make this offer once, and may Allah have mercy on your soul if we misjudged you."_

Even from my room, the distinct threat in his voice became apparent. Gunny, however, was as cool as ice. _"You didn't, brothers,"_ he answered in an amazingly calm voice that sounded as if he could lure anyone into trusting him. _"What will be expected of me?"_

_"You have to come with us now to be questioned by our brotherhood's counsel of elders."_

_"Who are your brothers?"_ Gunny asked, still applying the amazing, open tone he had used before. 

_"We are people who trust in nothing but the Holy Koran. The Brotherhood of True Faith."_ Rokneddin's voice had taken up a tinge of reverent awe. _"Although we aren't directly part of them, Allah's enemies see our parent organization in al Qaeda."_

There was the monster's name. al Qaeda - The Base. I felt my gut clench. Although this was exactly the contact that we had been hoping to establish, having the word hanging in the air made the whole scenario seem strangely surreal. This was it. 'You can do this, Gunny.' 

I was reluctant to let him go into the lion's den all by himself, but right at that moment it couldn't be helped. Or so I thought. But I hadn't counted on my 'husband's' readiness of mind. 

_"I will come with you,"_ he acknowledged calmly. _"But may I make a suggestion?"_

Obviously intrigued, Kourosh told him to do so. 

_"Let me bring my wife."_ Gunny's voice had sounded as if he had just asked if he could simply go to the bathroom. Our guests gasped audibly - and so did I, by the way. 

_"Of what use could that woman possibly be to us?"_ Rokneddin's voice was full of contempt. 

Upon hearing his answer, I resolved never to play poker with Galindez. _"Her father was a driver for the American embassy in Teheran when the Shah was still in power,"_ he calmly explained. _"Maryam grew up to despise America, but nevertheless she learned their language so perfectly that she could pass for an American wherever she wants to. She might be of infinite use to our cause and I know that she would pledge her life to Allah, even though she may only be a woman."_

Had the situation not been so deadly serious, I would have had enormous difficulties stifling my laughter at the Gunny's bold explanation. I sent a silent prayer heavenward that Kourosh and Rokneddin bought it. 

_"Bring her here."_

_"Maryam!"_ Gunny sounded like a drill sergeant. 

I quickly entered the room and looked at the three men, waiting in silence. 

_"You speak English?"_ Rokneddin asked in Farsi. His stare could have stabbed me. 

"Yes, I do," I said in English, shyly lifting my eyes. 

The brothers exchanged a surprised glance. Then Kourosh pulled out a scarf and blindfolded the Gunny. A moment later Rokneddin did the same with me and we were swiftly led outside and seated in a car that instantly drove off. 

Half an hour later  
Unknown location  
Near Zaranj  
Western Afghanistan I blinked several times once they removed the blindfold. They had brought Gunny and me into a poorly-lit hut. We were standing in the middle of the small, dirty room, in front of us a row of middle-aged and elderly men, scrutinizing us in silence. I braced myself and waited, unconsciously seeking shelter behind my _Chador_. 

_"You are Vajih Goshtasbi?"_ the eldest in the row quietly addressed Galindez. 

_"I am,"_ he answered calmly. In an odd little mental side-note I resolved to mention in my report the Gunny's excellent command of Farsi under considerable pressure. 

_"And this is your wife Maryam?"_

_"Yes."_

_"Vajih, who is your most powerful enemy?"_

_"The United States of America."_

_"Maryam, whom do you hate most in this world?"_

I swallowed and quickly asked for God's forgiveness. _"The Americans,"_ I answered very low. 

_"What is the maxim of your existence?"_ The whole jury was looking at the both of us. 

Glancing at me, the Gunny took my hand, silently bidding me to go along with his reaction. I hoped I understood what he had in mind. 

_"There is no God but Allah and Mohammed is his prophet,"_ we said simultaneously. 

_"Do you pledge your life to Allah and this brotherhood so that you can become His tools to fight new victories even more glorious than the holy deed of Mohammed Atta?"_

Feeling Gunny's grip tighten painfully and fighting the overwhelming urge to throw up at the thought of what we were asked to swear, I implored God to take our following actions for what they were truly intended to be. 

Again, my colleague and I spoke together. _"I do."_

After what seemed an endless half-hour, the terrorists again dropped us off at our humble abode, giving us directions to attend their next meeting, two days from that time. From what we understood between the lines, something big was in the planning and we, especially I, were part of their plans. I fervently prayed that we might get the chance to do anything that would annul our dreadful oath. 

When he had closed the door behind my back and lit the little petroleum lamp, I saw that Gunny's face was just as ashen as I believed my own to be. For a short moment, ignoring rank and only seeking comfort with a friend, we hugged tightly. 

"Semper fi, ma'am," Gunny whispered. 

"Semper fi." 

**Chapter Two** 1317 Local -- 1817 Zulu   
JAG Headquarters   
Falls Church, Virginia Her innate sense of timing had finally begun to rub off on me. 

While it must undoubtedly be a useful trick in many cases, it was driving me insane at this particular point in time. I didn't want such a keen awareness of just how long she'd been gone, and yet I couldn't find any way of turning it off. It was like a set of tumblers turning endlessly in my mind, clicking through the hours, days and weeks since she boarded that plane. 

I'd had a file open on my computer for a few minutes already, but I honestly had no idea what it contained. My thoughts were scattered in a dozen different directions: the latest theater report from western Afghanistan, the calm yet cautious tone of her last email, the likelihood of me finding a justifiable reason to join her out there ... That last one stretched the bounds of logic a little. I would have been about as inconspicuous as a Starbucks in her current location. Still, I hated the idea of being utterly superfluous while my partner -- no matter what, I'll never stop using that term -- took on possibly the most difficult and risky assignment of her life. 

"Commander?" 

It was a moment before I realized that someone was addressing me, and I wondered how long Coates had been standing there. Maudlin introspection really wasn't my style. "Sorry, Petty Officer. What's up?" 

The young woman started to open her mouth, but seemed to change tactics in midstream. "Permission to speak fr - " 

"Granted." 

Coates looked apologetic as she spoke. "You need to stop watching the clock, sir. It won't bring the colonel home any sooner, and you're just going to give yourself an ulcer." 

Busted by the office staff. That was a new one. I offered a smile to keep her from worrying about having overstepped her bounds. "Am I that transparent, or are you just perceptive?" 

"Maybe a little of both, sir?" 

I shook my head, the false smile suddenly too tiring to maintain. "I can't not think about it, Coates." 

"I know, sir. Um, the admiral wants to see you, so maybe he's about to give you an assignment that will take your mind off things for a while." 

"One can hope." I stood up from my desk. "Thank you, Petty Officer." 

When I reached the admiral's office and recognized his visitor, I was struck by a momentary flash of cold fear. Clayton Webb was sitting in one of the chairs facing the desk, and Admiral Chegwidden waved me into the other one. I swallowed all the questions about Mac's status that immediately rose in my throat. If something had happened, surely it would be the first topic of conversation. 

"Admiral, Webb," I acknowledged, working to keep my voice even. It took more effort than I'd expected. 

"Commander, a rather ... important and unforeseen situation has come up," the admiral began. "Mr. Webb has been sent by the DCI himself, with coordination by the CNO's office, to bring us up to speed." 

I swiveled to face Webb, cocking an eyebrow. The past year had cooled some of the tension between the Navy and the CIA, but not by much. If the Director of Central Intelligence and the Chief of Naval Operations had found something worth ignoring that mutual animosity for, it must have been something substantial. 

"Am I to assume that this is unrelated to the operation in Afghanistan involving Colonel Mackenzie and Gunnery Sergeant Galindez?" 

"That's correct." Webb opened a folder and handed over a stack of photos. "Satellite imagery from the port city of Umm Qasr in Iraq, taken six days ago, before the port was secured by coalition forces. Those three cargo haulers are registered to a front company -- repeated inquiries have found no evidence of a legitimate shipping business. They left port in convoy approximately ninety minutes after these pictures were taken. Our analysts have reason to suspect that they may be carrying biological and/or chemical weapons, which forces in the Baath government may be attempting to keep hidden from U.S. troops or UN investigators." 

To say that the idea was chilling would be a severe understatement. American intelligence had been telling anyone who would listen about the threat of such weapons in that country for months -- years, even. But in an age when politics could color even the smallest perception, and in an arena where revealing information could compromise lives, it was all a storm of chaos -- and so the possibility hadn't fully registered with me until this. 

"It's possible, of course, that the ships aren't Iraqi government property at all. They could be controlled by any one of a number of terrorist cells, not the least of which is al Qaeda. To be honest, I'm not sure which contingency is worse. And it's also possible -- likely, even -- that whoever controls the ships is prepared to use any or all of their weapons in retaliation for U.S. action in Iraq, or simply as an act of fundamentalism. We can't say for sure what their capability to attack is, because so far we haven't been able to confirm the cargo." 

"Where is the convoy headed?" 

"Nowhere, apparently." 

I glanced up from the photos and leveled a disbelieving gaze on Webb. "Nowhere? I know those ships are old, Webb, but six days is enough time to go a long way." 

"They keep changing course. Sometimes they cut their engines altogether. Satellites and reconnaissance drones pick them up every few hours, but both platforms can only hold their position for so long. As far as we can tell, they're going in circles in the Gulf area. If they haven't met up with any tankers yet in order to take on fuel, they'll have to do so soon -- those old boats can't sail indefinitely." 

"If their holds are full of stored diesel instead of normal cargo, they could hold out longer than you'd expect," I felt obligated to point out. 

Webb looked impatient. It was an expression I was very used to seeing from him. "Well, if they've got a non-standard cargo load, someone in that port has to know about it, so that should probably be your starting point." 

His choice of words immediately set off a warning chime in my head. "What do you mean, _my_ starting point?" 

The admiral took over. "This situation needs to be remedied with as little chatter as possible on normal intelligence channels. Apparently someone at the Agency -- far be it from me to speculate on who -- suggested that a JAG with extensive investigative experience might be able to track down some information on those ships, and also accomplish the associated task of developing rules of engagement regarding the convoy." 

I took a moment to absorb the gravity of the assignment, and even then it didn't completely take hold as being reality. "Rules of engagement based on what, sir?" 

"The threat posed by the convoy, and the likely targets of that threat. If there are in fact biological or chemical weapons aboard any of those ships, they could be delivered to a number of populated ports in the region in a matter of hours. Should we confirm the presence of such weapons, the contingencies for a preemptive strike would have to be addressed.' 

Another frightening option instantly came to mind, and I voiced it almost without thinking. "If, on the other hand, those ships turn tail and start steaming toward Kuwait or Qatar, and we don't have confirmation of their cargo ..." 

The admiral regarded me coolly, but I could see that he wasn't impervious to the dilemma. "You can see, then, why we need to get an experienced JAG into the region at the first available opportunity." 

"Yes, sir." 

The steady acceleration of my pulse during that exchange had everything and nothing to do with my own personal anxiety. I'd had lives in my hands before, and I had plenty of knowledge about both maritime law and wartime ROEs. If a theater commander were to ask for my recommendation on whether or not to destroy a convoy of three ships, I knew I'd be able to give it without hesitation. But I also knew what it was like to live with recriminations, and the death of a young RIO would pale in comparison to the deaths of dozens of civilian merchant sailors on those ships -- or the deaths of thousands in a chemical or biological attack. 

There are days when I seriously question my decision to become a judge advocate. This wasn't one of them, though. Tough decisions are an inevitable part of life. If someone had to make these particular decisions, it might as well be me. 

"What specifically is my assignment, Admiral?" 

"Get out to the Seahawk first," the admiral instructed, "and talk to the battle group commander about some basic preliminary ROEs. Then, travel to Umm Qasr and see what you can find out about these ships. But if you hit a dead end, cut your losses and return to the ship. Better to stay on top of the situation from there." 

"The port has been secured," Webb added. "All the same, go in as a civilian. We'll fake you some media credentials: you'll probably get more information as a reporter. If that doesn't work, you can pretend to be from the Red Cross, UN Relief, or whoever the hell you want. Just do what you have to." 

Admiral Chegwidden reached for a file on his desk. "Personally, I'd suggest taking an aide along, if only for strength in numbers. You can commandeer a legal officer from the battle group, or if there's someone you'd prefer to take from Headquarters - " 

I knew at once what my choice would be. "Sir, with your permission, I'd like to take Petty Officer Coates." 

Webb scowled. "The delinquent?" 

"That's former delinquent to you, Webb. She was closely involved with Lieutenant Roberts's ROE work in Operation Enduring Freedom, and she's good at finding ... creative solutions. Admiral?" 

"I'll add her to your travel orders. Better go let her know that your transport leaves in two hours." The admiral's voice was grim, but resolute. "Good luck, Commander." 

"Thank you, sir." 

I ducked back into my office to tie up a few loose ends. Before shutting down my computer, I fired off a quick email to Mac: 

  
_Hey, Marine -- _

I have to go out to the Seahawk. No, not to fly. I'll explain when I get a chance. But at least our emails won't have to travel quite as far for a while. 

Take care - Harm

  
Already preparing myself for the road ahead, I went out into the bullpen. "Petty Officer." 

Coates straightened. "Sir?" 

"Still got friends on the Seahawk?" 

"A few, sir." 

"Let's go pay them a visit." 

To be continued... 


	2. Chapters 3 & 4

'Collateral Damage' - Part Two  
Authors: AeroGirl and Daenar  
Disclaimer: See Part One **Chapter Three** Two days later  
2112 Local - 1642 ZULU  
Suburbs of Zaranj  
Afghanistan Why did it have to be so damned cold? 

I tried not to moan as I took my hands out of my _Chador_, blew on my icy fingers and wriggled them to somehow keep up the blood flow. The damp air I had just exhaled hung around my reddened fingertips in small clouds. T plus two hours 14 minutes and counting. 

Gunny was sitting only a few yards away from me, included in a circle of about 25 men gathered around a low campfire. As the only woman present, I had been granted the grace of lowering myself in a corner of the small courtyard that I knew stretched behind the house of one of the men in the congregation. I had no idea which of them was tonight's host. Gunny and I had again been picked up blindfolded. 

The past two hours easily figured among some of the most trying experiences I had ever gone through. I had expected that religious extremists wouldn't just meet up and at once get to their business. But what I definitely hadn't counted on was having to endure an entire conference on Koran exegesis circling around the forty-eighth sura, the one titled "The Victory." 

A man that I had immediately recognized as the imam of the nearby mosque had started the discourse. While he had been talking I had kept telling myself to grit my teeth and just try to ignore the cold. Whatever I was here for tonight would soon be disclosed to me and then I would be allowed to go home and warm up in my bed. 

Drat that muezzin. 

After having listened patiently for 35 minutes to his parish colleague, the man who normally called out to the faithful to gather for prayers suddenly spoke up and violently contradicted the argumentation of his imam. While the Man of God had been preaching about the unfaithful being destined to eternally suffer after their death, the muezzin had fervently argued that it wasn't Allah's will for us to quietly wait for that to happen, that we ourselves had to be the means of making them meet their destiny. From there things had gone downhill. A heated discussion had set in about what exactly was the definition of Jihad, if ridding the earth of the unbelievers was more important than forcefully establishing Islamist structures in places where already there weren't any unbelievers left. 

_"And that He may punish the hypocritical men and the hypocritical women, and the polytheistic men and the polytheistic women, the entertainers of evil thoughts about Allah. On them is the evil turn, and Allah is wroth with them and has cursed them and prepared hell for them, and evil is the resort."_ The imam had his gaze fixed on the muezzin. _"So says the Prophet in sura 48, verse 6. Where does he speak of us taking up Allah's work for him?"_

_"And whoever does not believe in Allah and His Apostle - then surely We have prepared burning fire for the unbelievers,"_ the muezzin fired back, citing verse 13 of the same sura. _"This is exactly what we are doing here, Imam, preparing the grounds for His glorious venue!"_ Faint murmurs of agreement were heard among the men present - you didn't raise your voice too openly against a Man of God. Had anyone else given the imam's argument, loud protest would have risen immediately. 

I admired the Gunny's patience. Once again he was doing the sullen-man routine, surely hoping just as much as I was that no one would ask him for his opinion. 

Too late. _"Vajih, you haven't said anything yet,"_ Kourosh now addressed him, making my stomach knot. Curious glances were fixed on the silent newcomer. 

Gunny pulled himself up a little and took a slow breath as if in deep thought. My fingers were crumpling the cloth of my _Chador_, my thoughts imploring God to help my 'husband' come up with a diplomatic answer, preferably in grammatically correct Farsi. The last thing we needed right now would be to upset half the group with an answer that would satisfy the others, let alone making everyone suspicious about an educated Iranian who didn't master his own mother tongue. 

_"I think Allah will reward any action that brings the world nearer to perfection,"_ Galindez stated quietly, speaking as slowly as he could without giving away that instead of taking time to think about theology, he was desperately fumbling with grammar. _"Be it with fire and sword or be it by firmly installing the wise law of the Sharia. The only constant by which we shall lead our lives must be the struggle for His kingdom to come. This way we could never do anything against Him."_

Bravo Zulu. Sometimes a thorough Christian education provided you with the most surprising faculties, I mused. Or where else if not in church should Gunny have learned to meet the standards of religious speech? With all the verbal detours and tightrope walks needed to satisfy each and everyone listening? I had a hard time biting back my grin. 

Ironically, the only Christian present in the circle of Muslim extremists had thus managed to smooth the seas. He had effectively ridded the others of their arguments. After having exchanged a few astonished glances with his brother, with the imam, the muezzin and a couple of elders, Rokneddin addressed the Gunny with a slight smile. 

_"I'm getting the impression that inviting you along was a good thing to do, Vajih,"_ he said. _"So, are you prepared to hear what your wife must do?"_

Thanks be to Allah, Sunday school was over at last. I swallowed my anger about being talked about as if I weren't present and had to follow orders like some slave. Instead I fine-tuned my ears, every fiber of my body becoming yet another antenna prepared to catch even the slightest bit of information. 

_"What will be expected of her?"_Gunny asked. 

Kourosh pulled a small stack of paper out of his inside pocket. Knowing that Vajih Goshtasbi was able to read, he spread out the documents on the ground for Galindez to see. 

_"Your wife must meet with an American who claims to be able to provide us with surface-to-air missiles."_

I needed all of my willpower not to suck in my breath. I would have to politely talk and negotiate with a man who worked with our fiercest enemy. This wasn't the first time I had come across people from my own country who were willing to put that country in grave danger just for their personal monetary benefit. The espionage trial connected to the Krylov affair was still vivid in my memory. But still, whenever a traitor of that kind was unlucky enough to get near me, he would normally be sure to meet my wrath. I swallowed. Nothing but my Marine-trained iron will would keep me from strangling that man once I'd met him. 

While I was still trying to get my temper in check, Kourosh went on laying out his plans to the quietly listening Gunny. _"The man's name is Benjamin Kalesky. He was recommended to us by our friends in Kandahar. The man seems to have connections to Russia and can apparently supply us with 25 short-range missiles, Russian copies of the well-known Stinger type. He says he could also help us acquire the much cheaper Soviet off-the-shoulder SAM-7, but they are too old and too imprecise in handling. We want quality."_

Gunny nodded. _"A wise choice,"_ he agreed. _"Why does this American sell weapons that he knows will be used against his own kind?"_

_"For some reason he feels he can't go back to his country and he claims he has to earn his living,"_ the Afghan answered. 

Again I felt a flush of cold fury. Poor creature. He was forced to trade weapons to save himself from starving because his cruel country wouldn't have mercy on him! I resolved to learn as much as I could about the whereabouts, the past and the connections of this man, and once I got back to D.C. Benjamin Kalesky would be sure to hear from Sarah Mackenzie. 

_"What will be my wife's story?"_ Gunny wanted to know. 

_"She will say that she fell in love with an Afghan who was a student at an American university. She converted to Islam and followed him to his country. He died the martyr's death when the American aggressors attacked us in the terror scenario they called 'Enduring Freedom'. So now she wants to savor her revenge."_

_"Will she go like this?"_ Gunny nodded in the direction where I was sitting, for the briefest moment meeting my eye. Somehow this glimpse of mutual readiness to fight for what we believed in steeled my will. 

Kourosh shook his head. _"No. She will have to dress improperly, like all indecent women do, except for the scarf she will wear around her head and shoulders. I must ask your forgiveness for having to see your wife thus disgraced, Vajih. She must wear this."_

He handed Galindez a sack that apparently contained ordinary clothes. I wasn't really surprised that people felt the need to apologize to Gunny for the fact that I would offend him by wearing what they ordered me to. Why should they bother if a timid housewife might feel offended by having to wear indecent clothes? Female thoughts didn't matter, I thought distractedly. This was when I noted in slight panic that I was obviously getting way too acquainted with my role, if reasoning like this didn't make me angry. 

Gunny artfully feigned a frown as he examined the sack's contents. _"I guess it can't be helped,"_ he muttered gruffly. 

With a few last instructions concerning my meeting with Kalesky that was scheduled for the following night at 2100 local, the meeting ended with a joint prayer that our future endeavors might be granted Allah's grace. 

We were taken home, this time without being blindfolded. We could see that the session had taken place a lot nearer to our house than we had guessed. When he had picked us up for the meeting, the driver must have taken quite a few extra turns to make us lose our sense of direction. Now it was obvious that the Muslim brothers trusted us so far as to disclose their conspiratorial meeting-place to us. Should we really be proud of that? 

As soon as the door had closed behind my back, I dropped my _Chador_ on the ground, sat down on the old sofa with a deep sigh and rested my head against the wall, eyes closed. I felt nauseous at the thought of procuring missiles for terrorists. My brain kept refusing to accept that I was actually doing this for the benefit of my country, and for a fleeting moment I pondered whether or not I should take my sidearm with me and just plant a bullet straight into Kalesky's head. 

At moments like this, life decidedly sucked. 

The following day  
2043 Local - 1513 ZULU  
Mac and Gunny's house  
Suburbs of Zaranj  
Afghanistan "I've never looked so crappy in my life!" 

Gunny glanced up and quickly stifled a smile as he saw me enter the living-room. "It's not that bad, ma'am," he tried without sounding too convincing. 

I shot him a look. "Yes, it is, Gunny. Be honest." 

He chuckled softly. "I'm sorry, ma'am." 

Frustrated, I turned to the old mirror and took in the sight of my reflection. The jeans that Kourosh Maghari had dug up ended five inches above my ankles. What they were lacking in length, they offered in width instead. A tight belt held them in place, but the trousers looked as if I were wearing a dirty dark-blue potato sack. Together with an oversized pink sweater, my old sneakers and a sandy-brown cotton scarf on my head, I looked like someone who usually bought her clothes at the Tijuana flea-market. 

"God, I'm only glad Commander Rabb doesn't see me like this!" I stated in disgust. 

As the Gunny let out another low chuckle, I turned to find Galindez watching me openly. 

"What?" I asked, unnerved. 

"I don't think he would mind, ma'am," he observed. 

His words didn't clearly register in my brain. "Of course he would, Gunny!" I heatedly replied. "And I could never live it down! The commander may be insufferably dumb when it comes to personal issues but he's incredibly perceptive when it comes to teasing..." I stopped in shock, mentally biting my tongue and slapping myself for once again losing control. First Sturgis and now... 

I must have given the Gunny a frightened-deer-in-the-headlights look because after a few seconds of just staring at me, his expression softened and a compassionate smile spread over his features. "Permission to speak freely, ma'am?" 

Heaving a defeated sigh, I nodded. "Go ahead." 

"I didn't say that Commander Rabb wouldn't notice if you were poorly dressed, ma'am," Gunny said, still smiling. "I said that he wouldn't mind. Respectfully, ma'am: I'm sure you could show up in a sewage worker's suit and he'd still ask you out if it weren't for the chain of command." 

That and a few other things, yeah. Still, Galindez's words were balm for my battered soul. My anger faded away and I flashed him a grateful smile. "Thanks, Victor." 

"You're welcome, ma'am." 

"Umm... Gunny?" 

"Yes, ma'am?" 

I uneasily cleared my throat. "Could we... ah... could we keep this conversation confidential, please?" 

Gunny gave me an innocent grin. "What conversation, ma'am?" 

I couldn't help chuckling. "Thanks." 

2114 Local - 1544 ZULU  
District elementary school  
Suburbs of Zaranj  
Afghanistan Benjamin Kalesky was late. Not very late, but given the fact that I already hated him, keeping me waiting didn't really improve my opinion of him. I had to steadily remind myself that I was on a mission out here. Let him live, Marine. 

Gunny had driven me to my school and was right now inconspicuously hanging out in the small teahouse on the other side of the street, just in case I needed him. I was waiting for Kalesky in a quiet corner of the playground where there were a couple of benches for the teachers who watched the children during their breaks. 

I looked up when a flashlight was aimed at my face. Shielding my eyes against the bright beam, I recognized a man in his mid-thirties, of average height and build, clad in trekking clothes. 

"Suzanne Greene?" 

My cue. "Yes. Mr. Kalesky?" 

The flashlight was immediately switched off and the man held out his hand to me, grinning self-confidently. "Yep. Call me Ben. Nice to meet you." 

"Same here," I said, giving him what I hoped would come out my most charming smile. 

Kalesky sat down beside me, still smiling at me in a way he apparently thought was irresistible. "So, Suze, what brings you to this goddamn country?" 

"Husband," I said curtly. "Our charming countrymen killed him in 'Enduring Freedom.' So I joined the other side." The quicker we got this over with the better. 

"Uh, I see," Kalesky said smugly. "Vendetta, right?" 

"Sort of. You?" Quid pro quo, man. 

"I jumped ship." 

"Er... excuse me?" 

Kalesky's grin took up a slightly sheepish edge. "I was in the military. Ironic, isn't it? I was supposed to kill the men who're now paying me." 

Luckily, my fists were hidden in the big front pocket of my sweater, so Kalesky couldn't see them clenching as my fury grew. Not only an American, but a soldier who had sworn an oath to protect his country! Immediately the investigator in me surfaced. 

"How did that happen?" I casually asked, tingeing my speech with a slight incredulous chuckle. Brushing back a stray strand of my hair, I loosened my scarf a little and shoved it back, hoping my smile would have a little effect. 

"Oh, no big deal," he replied carelessly, obviously content that he had managed to impress me. He moved a little closer and leaned in conspiratorially. "I was doing special ops in Pakistan, even before 9/11. Chasing Osama, you know?" He shrugged. "Don't even know what made me do it. The thrill, I guess." 

I nodded, looking up to him with wide, awed eyes. 'Keep talking, buddy, I'm listening to whatever story you'd like to share,' I silently invited him. "What made you leave?" I asked with the smile of a co-conspirator. 

He chuckled, enjoying himself in the role of the adventurous hero. "At some point, I befriended a few locals and they convinced me that there was a lot of money just waiting to be pocketed. All they wanted in return were a few lousy weapons. I knew what they needed and where to find them. So I let my comrades do their hide-and-seek games and left. Semper fi." His grin was exuberant. 

I nearly choked on my own saliva. "Semper what?" I managed to croak out, covering my lapse with feigned laughter. 

His chuckling intensified, glad that he had obviously made a good joke. "'Semper fi.' That's something the Marines keep saying whenever they think it fits. Latin. Means 'always faithful', or something like that." 

"So you were a Marine?" I was amazed that I still managed to smile a little seductively while my whole interior was screaming at me to strangle that man. 

"Yep." Still grinning widely, he snapped off a mock salute. "Lance Corporal Benjamin Kalesky, ma'am." 

"I see," I said with yet another chuckle that threatened to catch in my throat. I decided I'd better get down to business. "So what have you got for my friends?" 

Kalesky handed me a few papers. "I'm told Soviet SAM-7s aren't their favorite?" 

"Nope." 

"Too bad. Would have been a real bargain." He offered me yet another sly grin. "Then tell them to have the money ready next Friday." 

"How much?" 

"Five million dollars, the usual Swiss numbered account. These are the coordinates of your nearest training-camp, right?" He showed me a note and I compared it to the information Webb had given us before we had flown out here. I nodded. 

Kalesky went on. "Good. These are the coordinates that we'll deliver the babies to." He handed me a second note. I quickly calculated that the spot had to be just a few miles from the camp. "As soon as we have a confirmation that the money has arrived safely, we'll contact you about the appointment," Kalesky added. 

I frowned, eager to find out if he knew something about what the Magharis and their friends were up to. "Won't that take too long?" 

"Don't worry, Suze," Kalesky replied, good-naturedly patting me on my back, "Didn't your friends tell me that they won't need the Stingers for next week anyway? I thought they'd decided to use the Al-Husayns for that one." 

Next week. 'Think, Mackenzie,' I implored myself. I had to get my hand on whatever crumbs of information he would be able to feed me. "Uh, sure," I replied with yet another seductive grin that had a visible effect. "It's just that I'm not entirely up to speed on the day and time they have in mind and I thought they might have planned to have the Stingers in store, just in case." 

Kalesky tapped his index on the tip of my nose. "Aww, you're sweet, Suzie. Always thinking about backup for your friends, right?" He winked. "Just tell them to get the money transfer done right away and they should get the cargo in three or four days. Special treat for you, babe." 

I leaned in a little closer, thanking Kourosh for the oversized sweater that I now let slide sideways, accidentally baring one shoulder. "Ben," I said in a coaxing voice, pouting a little, "You know how those people think about women. They're using me when English comes in handy but they won't tell me what they're planning. I don't think that's fair. You wouldn't know a few details...?" I let my voice trail off. 

The American shook his head. "Sorry, hon, but you'd have to ask your friends. I'm only a little merchant doing them a favor. Don't ask, don't tell, that's my credo." He was now decidedly invading my personal space, making me want to throw up, but mentally gritting my teeth, I continued the play. 

"It was worth trying," I said with a wink, shoving my sweater in place and rearranging my scarf. "I'll let my people know what you're offering." 

As I got up, Kalesky followed suit, once again offering me a handshake. "Thank you, Suze. It was fun working with you. Maybe we'll meet again?" His voice was ringing with barely veiled innuendo. 

I matched his smile. "I'll hold you to that." 'And I'll personally make sure that we will, Corporal,' I silently added. 'In the courtroom.' 

I waved as he left the playground, already preparing the closing argument that would seal Kalesky's fate. Having waited a few minutes, I then signaled to the Gunny to get to the car and a few minutes later we were headed home. 

"You look like hell, ma'am." The Gunny was genuinely worried. 

"Oh, it's nothing." My words were dripping with sarcasm. "I just got to know a Marine who sells weapons to al Qaeda. How was your day?" 

I could see the shock mirrored in Galindez's eyes. "A Marine, ma'am?" 

"Yes. But don't worry, Gunny. I'll nail his sorry ass once we're done here." 

Gunny chuckled. "I'm sure you will, ma'am. Any useful details?" 

"Actually, yes. They seem to be planning something big for next week. I don't have any ideas as to what they're aiming at, but given the fact that they're planning to use Al-Husayn missiles for the attack, everything within a range of about 650 miles could be a possible target." 

"Al-Husayn missiles, ma'am?" 

"A Soviet Scud type that was improved by the Iraqis. Not as good as our own but fairly deadly if carefully aimed and handled." 

"Ma'am, if I may - I think we should call Mr. Webb." 

"My thoughts exactly, Gunny." We had arrived home and I immediately went in search for our secure sat-phone. Hopefully, Webb would just listen and not ask too many questions that I wouldn't be able to answer. Only after that could I hope to activate our makeshift sat-phone internet access and finally get everything that had happened off my chest. 

Maybe tomorrow my favorite long-legged sounding board could spare a few minutes from hanging around his beloved jets and help me keep up my morale by sending a few lines. 

**Chapter Four** 0723 Local -- 1123 Zulu  
USS Seahawk -- at a deployed location in the Persian Gulf "JAG on the bridge!" 

I still haven't entirely gotten used to hearing that, and if it hasn't happened by now, it probably never will. Regardless of how secure I am in my career and my choices, the vast majority of my time at sea has been spent as an aviator, and aviators just don't get announced on the bridge. Aviators almost never have a reason to be on the bridge in the first place. 

Still, after about a million investigations, I'd managed to learn how to ignore the inherent strangeness of being up here. Poor Coates, on the other hand, actually jumped when the call rang out. 

"Reporting as ordered, Captain," I said crisply, coming to attention. 

Captain Johnson returned our salutes with a world-weary expression. "There's never going to be an occasion when I can truthfully say that it's good to see you again, is there, Commander?" 

"Unless it's at your retirement ceremony or mine, sir, probably not. Have you picked up the convoy again?" 

"Global Hawk had 'em for a good eighty minutes this time before it hit bingo fuel and had to break off." The skipper gestured to an anxious-looking lieutenant standing nearby. "Lieutenant Harris has been coordinating all the data we've got on their movements so far, in hopes of establishing some kind of pattern to their course changes." 

I directed my attention toward the young man. "Any leads so far, Lieutenant?" 

"Nothing to speak of, sir. It's a little like trying to work a jigsaw puzzle with only half the pieces. Less than half, really." 

"Well, hopefully we'll have a few more pieces for you after doing some poking around in Umm Qasr." 

The lieutenant's expression suggested that he had no problem staying behind on the ship during that particular mission. "The COD going mainland is set to go at 1210 Zulu," Captain Johnson said. "In the meantime, we need to talk about contingency plans." 

"That we do, skipper." 

Harris, Coates and I followed the captain to his conference room, where the ship's JAG was waiting. She introduced herself as Lieutenant Brandt, and promptly deferred to me, looking relieved to be taking direction for a change rather than giving it. Tough to blame her. I've been a JAG for eight years now -- wow, that's a scary thought -- but other than a couple of brief stints filling in for someone, I've never been a shipboard JAG for any length of time. And especially not a shipboard JAG in wartime. Not the kind of job that's conducive to long, restful nights of sleep. 

But anyway. Time to get this show on the road. "Under most recognized laws of maritime transport, we have no stated right to board those ships while they remain in international waters unless they're carrying war materiel," I began, aware that I wasn't telling them anything new. "However, international law only extends as far as the willingness of the parties involved to abide by it. It's not like the UN has patrol boats out here -- that job is basically left to us. In fact, we have an obligation under various treaties to protect our allies, and of course our own troops -- so if one or more of those ships makes a course for the coalition headquarters in Qatar or possibly this battle group, then preventative action is both lawful and necessary. And international law would obviously also forbid a chemical or biological attack, so if we have evidence to suggest that these ships are so armed, the picture changes considerably." 

"If we have evidence," the captain repeated. "But we don't have that yet." 

"Not to the extent we'd want to have before launching a strike," I admitted, wishing I had a better answer. "CIA picked up some chatter about weapons before the convoy left port, but there's been nothing since. Even though their behavior suggests that their motives aren't innocent, there's no concrete evidence of anything." 

Johnson sighed. "So we're waiting for them to make the next move?" 

"Not if the petty officer and I can gather conclusive information regarding their cargo, sir." 

The captain rose from his chair and walked the length of the room. The weight of all these possibilities was clearly evident to him, but he bore it well. I suppose I wouldn't have expected any less from a man who'd already faced the threat of a nuclear attack on his ship. 

"In the event that you _do_ find evidence of chem-bio weapons before they make any kind of move," he said at last, "is there any contingency in which you recommend making an attempt to board?" 

That was essentially the question I'd been dreading most, and I'm willing to bet that he knew it. There were many areas of this situation that were less than clear-cut, but this was probably the murkiest of them. 

I took a deep breath and gave my answer. "In my opinion, Captain, the likelihood of those weapons being used is directly tied to the likelihood of terrorist involvement. If the ships belong to Saddam, they could be either an attempt to hide the weapons or a plan to use them, possibly even on his own country in hopes of deterring coalition forces. However, if the ships are his, it's possible that the crews may have been forced into service and may not choose to carry out an attack, assuming that one was even ordered. The fear that has been keeping most of Iraq loyal seems to be fading by the day. 

"On the other hand, if the ships are controlled by a terror cell ... Osama bin Laden recently called for suicide attacks on any government which supports the coalition actions in Iraq. If members of al Qaeda or some other faction were to be confronted by a boarding party, there is a very strong chance that they would choose to detonate their weapons and try to take as many Americans as possible with them. Based on the likelihood of that threat, sir, boarding would be an extremely hazardous option." 

The captain nodded grimly. "I guess we don't have much choice but to worry about that if and when it becomes necessary. I assume you see our alternative as an alert sortie, ready to fire on the convoy if given the order?" 

"It's the safest course of action for both the battle group and the possible targets, sir." I didn't add that it was the riskiest course for the members of the convoy: everyone was aware of that, but the odds of those ships being manned by lost innocent merchantmen were extremely low, and everyone was aware of _that_, too. "If we have reason to believe that the weapons either do not exist or will not be used, I'd recommend a disabling airstrike, to be followed by a SEAL insertion to board the ships and neutralize the crews. Is your supply of standoff weapons adequate?" 

"Ordnance isn't our problem: op-tempo is. We're already pulling a lot of sorties in country as it is. To my way of thinking, this threat merits a constant patrol in the air, separate from the normal battle group patrol. Even adding just two jets to the rotation and augmenting with alert jets as needed will be stretching our capabilities." 

"Well, sir, you've got an extra pilot on hand if necessary." The skipper and I exchanged a resigned smile. I'd only met Captain Johnson the year before, during the first ROE flap of the Afghan campaign, but I got the sense that he and I understood each other somewhat. Certainly better than any of the other three present, since all of them had yet to reach the age of thirty. Besides, the man nominated me for a Silver Star. That wasn't something I'd be likely to forget anytime soon. 

"Duly noted, Commander. We'll make it work. Even if we have to call in a few more favors with the Air Force." 

Lieutenant Brandt had been scribbling furiously on a PDA, and she spoke up after her CO had finished. "Sir, can I just get you to summarize your recommendations so that I can run them by Central Command for approval?" 

"By all means." I turned toward her. "Continue to monitor and take no action until the presence of chem-bio weapons is confirmed or refuted. If the convoy takes a direct course toward the Arabian Peninsula, contact the nearest port if at all possible to determine whether the ships are expected, and stand ready to interdict. If we receive either a negative from the port or evidence against the presence of weapons, take them out." I looked up at the captain, who gave a brief, silent nod. 

"You can use temporary quarters to change into your civvies for the ride mainland. Check in at eight-hour intervals whenever possible, and contact the local command post to arrange pickup when needed." 

"Aye, sir." We stood up, waiting to be dismissed. 

The captain paused. "Commander, I honestly don't know whether I want you to find what you're looking for or not. But regardless of that, Godspeed." As he started toward the hatch, he added. "Good to see you too, Petty Officer." 

Jen Coates's eyes widened, and she hurriedly called, "Thank you, sir," as the Seahawk contingent left the room. "I didn't think he'd remember me," she said awkwardly, looking a little starstruck. "There are five thousand other sailors on board, and it's not like I was a big part of anything when I was here." 

"He's a good skipper, and you're tough to forget." I flashed a quick smile in her direction as we headed into the passageway, but she still seemed hesitant. "Coates, you're ready for this, right?" 

"Yes, sir," she replied immediately, drawing herself up taller. "Sir, what did the captain mean by that last part? About not knowing whether he wanted us to find what we're looking for or not?" 

"Well, if we find evidence that the weapons aren't there, this is pretty straightforward, but that's only the best-case scenario. If we find positive evidence of chem-bio weapons, that means there's an immediate danger we'll have to figure out how to act against. If we don't find evidence one way or the other, it doesn't necessarily mean they're not there -- it just means that we don't know whether we'll have to act or not. The devil you know beats the devil you don't, as they say." 

"Right." Slightly behind me, I could see Coates shaking her head. "I'm glad I'm not an officer." 

"Why's that?" 

She gestured helplessly as we turned toward the visitors' area. "Look at what you just did, sir! You got handed this information an hour before you got on the plane to come here, and the call you just made is basically going to decide what happens to that convoy. It could affect the lives of thousands of people and sway public opinion in the Arab world, and you had to just lay it all out and say what you thought. I don't know if I could do that." 

The comment made me stop and think a little. I don't usually get the luxury of wondering whether or not I can do something. It's just kind of expected that we'll do whatever's needed of us. Still, that expectation didn't come about by accident. "First of all, what happens to the convoy is going to depend on a lot of factors, not just my recommendation, which by the way has to be reviewed on about six different levels. But besides that, do you think I made the right call?" 

"It's not my - " 

I stopped walking and faced her squarely. "Coates." 

She locked it up and held her ground. "Yes, sir, I think you did." 

"Then that's the important thing, isn't it?" 

"Yes, sir." 

"Okay. Let's get ready to go, all right?" 

  
*********** 

  
With a few minutes to spare before I had to be on deck, I turned on my computer, logged into my email, and found precisely what I'd been hoping for. Thank God for remote secure webmail. Otherwise I would have had no idea what Mac was up to, and between her crazy mission and mine, I might have hauled off and kicked something out of pure nervous energy. 

_>> I swear to God, flyboy, I want to kick something ..._

I had to smile, somewhat ruefully. Great minds think alike. As I read further, though, I got a sense of just how frustrated she must have been. To have to stand there and allow such a despicable person to betray his country and aid avowed terrorists ... Well, Mac had always been better at keeping her cool than me. Yet another reason why it was better for all concerned that I wasn't along for her trip. 

The rest of her message was deliberately vague - from her tone, I could tell that she'd discovered something that she didn't trust even to the secure-mail system. That thought was a little disturbing, but I didn't have time to worry about her any more than usual, because the COD would be on deck in a matter of minutes. 

I tapped out a reply, explaining that I had a little undercover work of my own to do, related to a threat against the coalition headquarters in Qatar. I guess I didn't fully trust the secure-mail system, either. I also offered a few suggestions of "non-judicial punishments" for her new acquaintance, hoping that at least a couple of them would make her smile. A guy could get seriously homesick for that smile. Gunny Galindez had no idea how lucky he was. 

Time to go to work, though. I shut down the computer and headed for the flight deck. 

1024 Local - 1324 Zulu  
Umm Qasr, Iraq "How are you doing, Jen?" 

"Wishing I could take this thing off, thanks." Coates adjusted the scarf over her hair for the eleventh time that morning. It wasn't strictly necessary for her to cover up, but it kept us from sticking out too much, and that was reason enough. "How long until we can go home?" 

"Hey, it could be worse. You could be wearing the veil, too." 

"Thanks a million." 

The two of us exchanged a tired smile. For the past few days, we'd been fundamentally living our roles as journalists, keeping up the cover practically twenty-four hours a day. It had taken her a while to get acclimated to calling me by my first name, but once I felt confident that no one would see us as military personnel, we had immediately started the search for answers. 

"Get anywhere with the dock workers?" 

Coates smiled with a hint of satisfaction. When we'd arrived at the dock to interview the port authorities, the manager had been willing to speak to me and only me: my female companion was not invited. Possibly out of a desire to stick it to him a little, Coates had shown no hesitation in going out to the pier on her own while I met with the dock manager. 

"I promised to get their pictures into a big American newspaper," she said, patting the camera bag slung over her shoulder. "They were all too happy to show me around. Kept telling me I was pretty and asking me to bring more Americans to Umm Qasr." 

"American soldiers probably aren't what they have in mind," I theorized. 

"Anyway, they said that the March 20th departures were pretty typical. The containers were marked and treated as fragile cargo. A local exporter's logo was on the crates -- some kind of ceramic dishware." 

"Their city was about to become a battlefield, and they were worrying about shipping dishes?" 

Coates met my disbelieving look without a flinch. "Respectfully, if you knew your hometown was going to be attacked and your livelihood disrupted, wouldn't you try to grab as much profit as possible while you still could?" 

"Fair point," I admitted, once again glad to have brought her along. "The cargo manifests match up to that story for the most part. There are a few containers listed without cargo specified, though, and that worries me a little. Also, they obviously didn't follow their stated route. There's an address for the exporter, though. Of course, what with all the upheaval, we may not find anyone there." 

Coates shrugged. "Best shot we've got." 

I could tell it took some effort for her not to add a 'sir' to the end of that sentence. "Supposedly the office is only a few blocks down, maybe a mile and a half. We might as well walk it." 

"Lead the way." 

The streets of the port city were relatively quiet that day, only a couple of weeks removed from the chaotic fighting that had begun the liberation of this country. Checkpoints manned by coalition soldiers kept a tenuous calm in the city. We passed building after building with shattered windows, and dozens of cars burned and abandoned by the side of the road. Few people were about, and the ones who were confident enough to travel seemed focused on getting food packages from the aid workers. 

"This isn't what I expected freedom to look like," Coates said in a low voice. 

To a certain extent, I was inclined to agree. But I remembered the stories told by the Kosovar woman rescued by that misguided sailor from the Patrick Henry, and the gratitude in her eyes for the chance she'd received. "Give it time, Jen. There's a lot of work to do, and we're going to make sure it gets done." 

As we turned a corner, I took the opportunity to glance back in the direction from which we'd come. There was a man walking on our side of the street, a few yards back, and I had a suspicion that he'd been back there for a while. 

"Out of curiosity, how long have we had that shadow?" 

"Pretty much since the dock, I think," Coates replied promptly, not sounding rattled at all. Maybe her somewhat tarnished background was coming in handy. "Should we try to lose him?" 

"He might have useful information." 

"He might also have a gun." 

"Five bucks says he doesn't." 

She gave me a look that plainly displayed her assessment of my sanity, but she didn't protest. "What, then?" 

I scanned a couple of alleys as we passed by, trying to gauge the distances. "Okay, I'm going to get ahead of you by a few steps, turn down the next alley, and duck into a doorway. You just walk straight down the alley and see if he follows." 

"Whatever you say," she replied, sounding slightly dubious. 

I lengthened my stride and reached the alley a full three steps before her, flattening myself into the first recessed doorway and drawing the sidearm I'd secured under my jacket. Coates walked right past without so much as a glance to give away my position, and when the man followed her into the alley, he had only a moment to wonder where I'd gone before the question was answered for him. 

The instant he passed into my sightline, I reached out and shoved him against the wall, bringing my weapon to bear. "If you don't speak English, we're in for a long day," I said coolly, watching his eyes bulge with fear. 

"N-no, friend," he stammered, raising his hands in surrender. "Friend!" 

"Si- Harm," Coates broke in, as she got a good look at him for the first time. "He works at the dock. I remember seeing him." 

I relaxed my grip on his shoulder and lowered my sidearm, patting him down for weapons, of which he had none. The man was probably fifty or so, and slightly built for a dock worker. "I'm sorry," I told him. "_Do_ you speak English?" 

"Small," he said, holding up his fingers an inch apart. "You ask about cargo?" 

"Do you have something more to tell us?" Coates asked warily. 

He nodded vigorously. "The men who talk to you, they only load normal cargo. They use -- machine ..." Searching for the word, he mimed the action of picking something up. 

"A crane? They operate the lifting equipment?" 

Another nod. "They do not see the front hold, special cargo." 

"And you did?" 

"Most boxes marked with this." He bent down to trace a design in the dirt, a rough sketch of the exporting company's logo. "Only this. But some boxes look older. They have this and also some of your writing." He pointed a finger at both of us. 

"English?" 

"English letters, and numbers." Coates quickly handed him a pen and paper, and he drew something that sent a surge of adrenaline through my veins. 

Coates frowned. "FIM-92A," she read. "What - " 

"It's the U.S. designation for a Stinger missile." I holstered my weapon immediately. "Sir, was there anything else you noticed? Any other markings like this, but different?" 

"No. Just this." The man looked hopeful. "You see I am friend now? You help?" 

"What kind of help do you need?" Coates asked. 

"Doctors." With a shaky hand, he withdrew a picture from his pocket. The weathered photo was of a girl, maybe fourteen years old. "She is sick. There is no more medicine." 

"Your daughter?" When he nodded, Coates turned to me with pleading eyes. "Commander - " 

I didn't bother to correct her for using my rank. By this point, there was no use in playing reporter any longer. "Relax, Jen. Sir, what you just told us is very important, and we thank you for talking to us. If you'll come back with us to our post, we can try to help you, okay?" 

Tears filled his eyes, and he grasped my hands gratefully. I had to pull free to root around in my pack for the radio. Relaying our location, I requested a ride back to the command post and informed them that we had a local who had earned some medical assistance. 

"When we get back to the CP, we're not even going to slow down," I informed Coates, stowing the radio. "We're getting right on a helo and getting our sixes back to the Seahawk." 

"And then what, sir?" 

"Those ships are carrying war materiel, but a Stinger isn't an effective platform for a chem-bio weapon. We'll signal a warning, and if it's ignored, we'll hit the convoy, disable it, and take it." 

A Marine Hum-vee pulled up at that point, and the three of us scrambled aboard. On the surface, our assignment looked to be complete. But until those ships were either flying an American flag or sitting on the ocean floor, there was still room for trouble, and I knew I wouldn't be getting much sleep for quite some time yet. 

To be continued... 


	3. Chapters 5 & 6

'Collateral Damage' - Part Three  
Authors: AeroGirl and Daenar  
Disclaimer: See Part One **Chapter Five** Tuesday  
1953 local -- 1523 ZULU  
Mac and Gunny's house  
Suburbs of Zaranj  
Afghanistan 'Non-judicial punishment...' As I was fiercely kicking and punching the sand-filled sack that Gunny had installed in my bedroom as a punching bag for us to somehow keep up our training, I once again saw Kalesky's face before my inner eye and it made me punch even harder. Suppressed grunts were underlining my efforts to work off my frustration. 

_>> Why don't I defend him so we can cut a deal to have him undergo your very personal kickboxing endurance routine?_

I'd had a hard time trying to keep my laughter low when I had received Harm's last email. He'd pulled out all the stops and had shown incredible creativity inventing nice, slow and wonderfully painful ways for me to get back at Kalesky - and only for a split second had I wondered how this vindictive tendency in his character could possibly have escaped my notice until now. On the other hand, every line of his email seemed to bear traces of his compassionate and only minimally malicious smile, and the picture I had gotten of him back on the pier in Norfolk was once again confirmed: Harmon Rabb simply wasn't capable of taking the law into his own hands. But his efforts to support me and lighten my mood were too endearing. 

Sighing, I grabbed for my towel and wiped my sweaty forehead, leaning back against the bare wall and briefly closing my eyes. The smirk wouldn't leave my face, though. I could just picture him looking at me in that unique way of his, half self-confident and half uneasy, waiting for me to relax and smile to let him know that he had made me feel better. Shaking my head with a low chuckle, I put away the punching bag. 'Gotta love that sailor...' 

Thank God, I had found the time to wear myself out enough to be able to concentrate on what still lay ahead of me tonight. Just two hours ago, my frustration had threatened to get the better of me when I had learned that thanks to my negotiating talent, the terror cell had received 25 brand-new anti-aircraft missiles. Special treat for Suzie, best regards, Ben. Great - even though we knew the Stinger copies wouldn't be needed for the terrorists' upcoming project. 

Gunny and I had three days left to prevent a major attack from happening - and we still had no idea what our 'friends' were aiming at. Thanks to the information that I had been able to drag out of Kalesky's nose about the group planning on using Al-Husayns for their strike, we had been able to assemble quite a list of possible targets. Two thirds of Afghanistan were within range of the missiles, with a little luck they'd fly right into Kabul. Webb had told us he'd notify the German and Dutch commanders of the international peace forces. 

But there was more. Half of Pakistan was in danger, too - the government in Islamabad had secretly been warned. Karachi was just out of reach, but we knew that Webb's CIA contacts in the Pakistani port city were frantically trying to get their hands on some information about what might be worth blowing up. My personal guess lay in the opposite direction, though. The Al-Husayns might even be able to threaten the international airport of Dubai and thus the most important supply route for coalition forces headquarters in Qatar. Gunny doubted the terrorists would take the risk of dumping their costly missiles into the Straits of Hormus, but I was not so sure about that. Stranger things had happened - especially with al Qaeda. 

At least I could be sure that neither Iraq nor the Omani waters lay inside the attack zone. I was heartily ashamed of myself for cherishing such selfish feelings, but still, my spirits were considerably lightened by the knowledge that certain people I happened to care about wouldn't be in the wrong place at the right time, whether they were playing reporter in country or taking little joyrides in 40-million-dollar birds. 

"You ready, ma'am?" I heard Galindez call from the adjacent room, shaking me from my musings. 

"Give me five minutes to grab a shower and get dressed," I answered and ordered myself to hurry up. Tonight might be our last chance to shed a little light on the whole scenario. 

2119 local -- 1749 ZULU  
Terrorist training camp  
A few miles outside Zaranj  
Afghanistan This was one of the few occasions when I actually felt grateful that I was once again wrapped in black from head to toe. Tonight, my _Chador_ spared me the effort to try and keep a straight face when I discovered yet another high tech item that the command central of the terror camp was equipped with. Where the hell had they gotten all this from? Okay, wrong question. As long as people like Ben Kalesky were around, nothing of the sort seemed to be too hard to acquire. 

Quite a few nations' finest products were assembled among the technical equipment. Russian satellite dishes were peacefully cooperating with a German computer network that was actually running our well-known American software. Chinese short-wave radio transmitters were competing with Finnish cell-phones. How many innocent salesmen were out there, I wondered, who had no clue that the merchandise they had just successfully delivered was now working against their own countries? 

_"Maryam?"_ The Gunny took me by the arm and dragged me over to where Kourosh Maghari was sitting in front of a short-wave radio. 

_"Sit down."_ Maghari's tone was harsh, even though he had told Gunny earlier that the group appreciated my dealings with Kalesky. But obviously it would have been too much to acknowledge that to me, too. I stifled my frown, obediently lowered my glance and shyly took a seat. 

_"What am I supposed to do?"_ I asked Gunny, keeping my eyes down. Of course, I knew exactly what was expected of me, but officially, only Gunny had been informed. I didn't need to know what lay ahead of me and what consequences my cooperation would bring about. I only had to function when required. 

_"Tell her,"_ Maghari ordered Galindez. 

Keeping his voice gruff, the Gunny instructed me. _"Our Iraqi friends in Basra will contact us tonight with updated information on the target. Unfortunately, none of them speaks Farsi and we have no one with us who's fluent enough in Arab. That's why we'll have to communicate in our enemies' language. You will translate."_

Normally, my first notion would have been to ask if the comm link was secure, but a) I was sure the terrorists had that problem covered, b) as a woman, I wasn't supposed to think that far and c) - frankly - I didn't care. So I only mumbled a low _"Yes."_ and nodded in submission to my husband's orders, waiting in silence until I would be needed. 

Gunny and Maghari went a few steps away from where I was sitting, meeting with Rokneddin and several other men that I recognized from the other night's meeting. They kept their voices low but, to my great relief, not low enough. 

_"Do you really think it is wise to cooperate with them in this?"_ Rokneddin's voice was ringing with doubt as he addressed his brother. 

Kourosh put a soothing hand on his younger brother's shoulder. _"We have the same goal, Rokneddin. They may be Sunnites and reject our fundamental belief in the succession of the prophets, but we're all Allah's disciples."_

A man that I had once heard being addressed as Amal Faezi spoke up, an impressive furrow showing on his brow. _"They're Sunnites? I thought Basra was Shiite territory. If I'd known this I'd never have given my consent! And my money, for that matter!"_

The imam fixed his gaze on Faezi. _"Calm down, Amal. Kourosh knows what he's doing."_

_"I sincerely hope so, for his sake."_ Faezi's stare sent daggers at the older Maghari before he turned it to Gunny immediately after. _"And I hope we can trust your wife, too."_ He looked over to where I was sitting, briefly meeting my glance before I quickly looked down, mentally slapping myself for letting myself get caught eavesdropping. 

Luckily, the Gunny had witnessed my lapse and reacted immediately. With a few quick strides, he was at my side, roughly yanked me up from my chair and slapped me without so much as uttering a word. For the fraction of a second I just stared at him, unbelieving, but then the brief unguarded look that he gave me in between all his acting, made me want to take him into my arms and console him - Galindez looked so lost and unhappy about what he had just felt compelled to do. I winked at him and then instantly slumped down on my chair, holding my cheek and seemingly biting back my tears. A hard thing to do when everything within me suddenly wanted to laugh out loud at the absurdity of the situation. Harm sure was in for another entertaining email! 

_"She will think twice of doing anything else than what she's ordered to,"_ the Gunny stated gruffly, returning to the other men who were smirking openly. 

'Exactly,' I silently agreed, 'I'm ordered to do as much damage to your devilish plans as I can. And I will - so help me God.' 

Just then, the radio crackled and whistled loudly. I jumped and turned to the microphone, feeling the circle of men closing in on me from behind. Almost like a pack of predators they were drawing close, leaning in, looking over my shoulders, keenly observing my every move. I have to admit that I actually began to feel intimidated by the threat that was inherent in the situation and if it hadn't been for the Gunny who somehow managed to stand right behind me, firmly laying his hands on my shoulders, the following minutes might have turned out hard to endure. 

["Zaranj forr-too-tree, 'dis is Basra base. Do you copy? Over." ] 

The voice that came from the loudspeaker was tinny and hoarse, but it made me instantly picture its bearer as the unforgiving Grizzly-bear type. Broad-shouldered, with enormous paws and sharp, deadly teeth. Faking a frightened expression that wasn't too far from my true state of mind, I glanced at Rokneddin who had positioned himself next to me. 

_"Acknowledge."_ He put a slip of paper on the table in front of me, reminding me that I had at least to make believe that I needed guidance to conduct a radio conversation. 

"This is Zaranj 423, broadcasting on channel 27. Come in Basra base. Over," I slowly read out what Rokneddin had written out for me and then again looked up at him. 

["Is you reddy, Zaranj forr-too-tree? How many horses stand by forr Friday? Over."] 

Gunny had told me that 'horses' were meant to be missiles but I wouldn't let the group know that I knew. _"They want to know if we're ready for Friday and how many horses we have,"_ I translated. 

_"Tell them we will have five Arabian horses ready to be saddled,"_ Rokneddin instructed me. 

Five Al-Husayns. Good. "We will have five Arabian horses at our disposal. Over," I informed our Basra contact, playing the ignorant interpreter again. 

["Not six? Over."] 

There had to be a reason why our contact wanted one more. One shot to spare, maybe? _"They want us to have six horses ready." _

Rokneddin seemed to contemplate the question for a moment, then gave in. _"They can have six."_

"We will have six horses for you, Basra base. Over" 

["You can starrt earrly? Over."] 

_"Our contact asks if we can start early." _

After a short whispered exchange with Kourosh and the imam, Rokneddin nodded. _"Tell them they're ready at daybreak."_

"They will be ready to start at daybreak. Over." 

["Time is 8:30 in 'de morrning. Yourr time. Over."] 

Again, I turned to Rokneddin. _"They say that the time is 8:30 a.m., our time-zone."_

_"What are the coordinates?"_

"Basra base, what are the coordinates? Over." 

["Firrst meeting: east longitude is fifty-six degrrees, ten minutes, nort' latitude is twenty-six degrrees, seventeen minutes. Over."] 

'Meeting' - what a nice euphemism for an attack. And the target was in the west - I had known it. They were aiming at the coalition forces. The only thing that struck me as kind of odd was that the distance seemed a little short. Dubai airport was out of question. Whatever they were trying to destroy had to be right at the coastline. Nothing else would make sense. Or would it? 

I had to try very hard not to jump when I suddenly felt Gunny's hand move on my right shoulder. Almost inconceivably, Galindez was tapping a Morse code on my clavicle. 

".--/---/-/./.-." 

Water. Apparently, Gunny had inconspicuously taken a look at the electronic map above my head and found that the target was situated at sea. I started to tremble slightly. There weren't any of our ships in that region, were there? But then - how would the terrorists know that on Friday, exactly at 0830, one of our ships would pass that exact spot? What the hell was out there? 

I translated the coordinates to the group and once again fixed my gaze on Rokneddin, awaiting his next order. 

_"Ask them for the other coordinates."_

"What are the coordinates for the other meeting? Over." 

["Same coorrdinates, Zaranj forr-too-tree. Second meeting is at 8:35, 'tird at 8.40. Over."] 

Three attacks. Two missiles per target. A convoy of some sort? I felt my pulse accelerate ever more. _"The coordinates are always the same,"_ I told Rokneddin, keeping my voice disinterested. _"They ask you to meet with them at 8:35 a.m. and at 8:40 a.m., too."_

_"Ask them if they really have them with them."_

Who? What? I felt like screaming in frustration. "Basra base? Will you have them with you? Over," I stubbornly translated Rokneddin's cryptic statement. On my right shoulder, Gunny's fingers tightened slightly. 'Play it cool, Mackenzie,' I silently scolded myself, 'you're going to find out what this is about.' 

I felt Gunny lean slightly to the side and murmur something to Kourosh who immediately answered. In afterthought, I guess it was Maghari's reply that caused Galindez to suddenly squeeze my left shoulder in a way that almost made me cry out, but back then I had no clue what provoked his reaction. It had me turn my senses on high alert, though, and not a second too early. 

"-.../-.-./.--/./.-/.--./---/-./..." Galindez tapped. ".--/./-.../-.../.-/.../.-/.--." 

B/C Weapons. Webb, ASAP. 

_Holy sh..._

Whatever was out there would cause innumerable deaths if the terrorists succeeded in blowing it up. That meant we had to find a way to stop the plot right here, within the next forty-eight hours. As my cheeks started to burn, I almost missed our contact's next sentence. 

"Repeat, please, Basra base. Over," I told him, wishing my voice wouldn't threaten to shake that much. Gunny gave my shoulders a rough shove to show his disapproval of his wife's lack of concentration. 

["We talk again 'Tursday, half past nine in 'de evening. Your time. Over."] 

_"They want to contact us again on Thursday at 9:30 p.m."_ I quickly translated, trying to look guilty. 

_"Tell them we'll be here."_ Rokneddin shot me another hostile glare. 

"We will be waiting for your call. Over." 

["Allah be wid' you. Over and out."] The static ceased as soon as the connection was broken. 

Out of here and to my sat phone! In my despair I could think of only one way to give the Gunny and me an excuse to get out of here at once. I started to get up, swayed on my feet, grabbed for my chair and gasped, pressing my hand to my stomach. 

_"Vajih..."_

For the fraction of a second, Galindez caught my glance and understood instantly. He jumped to my side to support me on my feet and looked up at the others. _"I need to get her home."_

Kourosh fixed his gaze on me, not caring to conceal his disapproval. _"What's with her?"_

Although we hadn't rehearsed this, Gunny answered within a split second. _"She is pregnant. I will take her home and come back to you."_

I looked up in shock and only barely managed to keep up my role. I had been thinking about feigning some sickness, not a pregnancy. But now it couldn't be helped. Kourosh nodded and motioned for his brother to take us home. 

During the whole ride, Gunny sat at my side helping me sit upright as my fake nausea threatened to overwhelm me. He didn't meet my eyes, yet. A caring husband wasn't really the image that he had given of himself this far and both of us intended to keep it that way. Vajih Goshtasbi wasn't too interested in his wife's health. He only wanted to ensure the safety of his son. 

_"I'll be back in a minute,"_ Gunny assured our driver and then slowly guided me into the house. Once the door was closed, he immediately let go of me. "I'm sorry, ma'am," he at once apologized, looking decidedly uncomfortable. "I couldn't think of anything else that fast." 

"Apology accepted, Gunny," I only answered, already desperately rummaging through my things for the sat phone. "Where is the damned thing..." I muttered angrily. 

"Uh... with all due respect, ma'am," Galindez began. I interrupted my search and looked at him, slightly annoyed. 

"Ma'am, I need to get back to the car, and I think we shouldn't call Mr. Webb until we dig up a few more details. I'll be back in about two hours. By that time we might be able to tell them a little more about what we're looking at." 

"No, Gunny, this can't wait. That's why I faked my little breakdown in the first place, remember? I'll inform Webb about what we know. But you're right: we definitely need more detailed information. So before you go..." I reached into a small side-compartment of one of my bags and pulled out a small transmitter that Webb had given me for special occasions such as this. "Put it somewhere safe where they won't see it and make sure you catch any important bits of conversation. I'll be monitoring you from here." With my last words, I had pulled a headphone with a little receiver out of the same bag. 

Gunny gave me the slightest of strained smiles. "Understood, ma'am. Let's just hope they feel like talking." 

"With a born diplomat like you around, I'm sure they will." I returned his smile, well aware that it didn't quite reach my eyes - I was too tense. 

"Thanks, ma'am." Gunny waved a salute and was already at the door again. I prepared myself a cup of strong coffee and flopped down on our shabby sofa, hoping that I'd at least hear from him soon. I hated long waits. 

  
For the next hour, I felt like I was doing a CIA freshman course on monitoring, the whole time desperately trying to reach Webb but for some reason I couldn't get a hold of him. 'Dammit, Clay, couldn't you just once be reliable?' 

Our friends at the camp had apparently gone back to making themselves comfortable with a little tea, discussing all things from oil prices to opium shipping routes. While most of the topics were interesting, at times even highly entertaining, I still found myself drawing patterns on my legal pad. 'Come on, Gunny, don't let me down...' 

Eventually, I heard the hum of the voices lessen a little. Apparently, Gunny had dragged someone a little away from the group and was about to question him. I straightened and unconsciously tightened the grip on my pencil. 

[_"Kourosh, can I ask you something?"_] 

[_"Of course, Vajih. Go ahead."_] 

[_"When I asked you earlier, you mentioned something about the targets being chemical and biological weapons. What exactly are we firing upon?"_] 

[_"I'm sorry I couldn't tell you earlier, Vajih, but your wife being around made it impossible. You know you can never trust them."_] 

[_"Yeah, I know,"_] Gunny cut in with a smile that was detectible even through my headphones. 

Maghari began to lay out the plan to Galindez, blissfully unaware that I was at the same time writing down every single word he said. 

[_"Three weeks ago, an Iraqi al-Qaeda cell in Basra contacted us and told us that members of the Iraqi Republican Guard had managed to secure at least parts of their weapons arsenal before the UN inspectors could get their hands on them. They loaded them on three inconspicuous commercial ships that were able to leave Umm Qasr before the port city was lost to the aggressors. The Republican Guard wanted al Qaeda to have the weapons rather than losing them to the invading troops. Some of them are conventional, you know, bazookas, grenades, short-range missiles, real Stingers for instance. But most of them are chemical and biological warheads, designed for Scuds and Al-Husayns."_] 

Those bastards... my fist clenched so firmly that my pencil broke. 'No, Iraq has no chem-bio weapons.' Sure. 

To any bystanders, Gunny's voice would have appeared normal, but working so closely with him, I had gotten to know him better than to be fooled by his seemingly calm attitude. Just like me, he was trying hard to digest the enormity of the news he'd just learned. 

[_"But if The Base has control over those ships, why don't we secure the weapons for us instead of blowing them up?"_] 

[_"They tried, but with each passing day, it gets harder to navigate them unobtrusively and right now there's nowhere we could safely unload the cargo. They've already been picked up a few times by western secret services. So our leaders decided we'd better make use of the weapons and cause as much damage as possible, to the western coalition as well as to those who call themselves Muslims but help the enemy."_] 

[_"The Emirates..."_] 

[_"For example. So, the crews of the ships will get them to the right coordinates on Friday morning and abandon them there. Our task is to blow them up. That's it."_] 

Gunny and Kourosh kept talking, but the topic had shifted to the Emirates' position in the current conflict and I felt I needed to hear no more. Yanking the headphone from my ears, I jumped to my feet, briefly trying to steady my racing pulse. I had expected some drastic scenario, but what we had at hand might easily turn out far deadlier than 9/11. There were tens of thousands of coalition soldiers in that region, and millions of civilian people populating the Gulf shores. 

Frantic, I once again tried to reach Webb. With trembling fingers, I dialed the irrationally long number, pacing the room and praying fervently that this time, he would be within reach. 

["Webb."] 

Thank God! "Clay? This is Mac." 

Webb instantly picked up the urgency in my voice. ["Colonel! Something wrong?"] 

Somehow, his question made me chuckle a little helplessly. "Actually, yes. We found out about their plans." 

["How bad?"] was all he asked. 

"Threatcon Delta." 

["Spill it."] 

"The target is a convoy of three commercial ships. They will be blown up on Friday morning, between 0830 and 0840, Afghan time, near the Emirates' coastline, 056 degrees 10 minutes East, 26 degrees 17 minutes North. They have Iraqi chem-bio weapons on board." 

Webb had listened quietly while I had explained the situation. However, my last sentence caused a sharp intake of breath. ["Wait! Could you repeat that last part?"] All of a sudden, his voice had lost all remainders of its usual calm. 

"They have chem-bio weapons on board that the Baath regime obviously managed to smuggle out of Umm Qasr a few weeks ago, and I'm sure you..." I didn't get to finish my sentence. 

["Damn!!! Are you really sure about this, Mac?"] 

Alarmed, I swallowed. "Yes, I am. Why?" 

["We were sure there were only conventional weapons aboard! Stingers, for instance."] 

"There seem to be Stingers among the cargo, but most of it is B/C materiel. Warheads, mostly. You knew about this?" 

["Yeah, we did. And based on the information that all materiel was conventional, we worked out some ROEs. Right now, a fighter squadron is headed for the ships to try and destroy them off the coast. "] 

"Oh God..." I gasped. And suddenly, an even more dreadful suspicion hit me. Grabbing the backrest of the sofa for support, I forced myself to ask the next question. "Clay, did they depart from the Seahawk?" 

["Yes, they did."] 

I immediately detected that he wasn't telling me everything. That was when I knew my intuition had once again been proven right. "He's up there, isn't he?" I whispered. 

["Squadron leader."] 

**Chapter Six** 2231 Local -- 1831 Zulu   
Approximately 180 nautical miles SSE of the Straits of Hormus "What's our time to target?" 

"Eleven minutes out," reported Cash from behind me. "Still quiet on the scope." 

"If we're lucky, it'll stay that way." 

"Jorgensen told me about your kind of luck, sir ... I'm not so sure I want it." 

I had to chuckle at that. An uninformed observer might come to the conclusion that I ended up in a Tomcat every time I paid the Seahawk a visit. Hell, I suppose that assumption isn't too far off these days. I certainly hadn't expected to be flying this particular mission, but the moment Coates and I had reported back aboard, Captain Johnson had pointed me toward the CAG. Apparently the operational tempo had been taking its toll on the air wing: two or three pilots were down with the flu, and there had been a deck mishap the night before that had everybody a little shaken up. No serious injuries, fortunately, but the CAG had said flatly, "If you're sharp, I want you" -- and I hadn't been inclined to disagree. 

From the time we'd radioed the Seahawk of our discovery until the time my bird's wheels had left the deck, about three hours had passed. If records were kept for such things, I'd probably be in the running for shortest time aboard a carrier, and my adrenaline level hadn't lessened by even a fraction. As soon as the Seahawk had nailed down the position of the convoy -- entirely too close to the Qatari coastline for anyone's liking -- a warning signal had been transmitted, demanding identification and surrender before action would be taken to force the issue. Predictably, no response was made, and so our mission stood. 

It occurred to me, at about ten thousand feet, that I'd barely said a word to Coates as we went our separate ways in the corridor outside CIC. She'd said good luck, and I'd acknowledged it, but I hadn't thought to tell her how well she'd performed over the last few days. For some reason, that bothered me, but I'd have to rectify it after I got back. Right now, my priorities were focused on a tiny sliver of the sea that was getting closer by the second. 

The radio squawked. "Echo Flight, Bat Cave. Give us a comm check and stand by for mission confirmation from CENTCOM." 

I keyed the comm switch. "Bat Cave, Echo Lead. Standing by." 

"Echo Two," acknowledged my wingman, a light-commander who went by the call sign 'Red.' 

"Echo Three." 

"Echo Four." 

"Echo Watcher," chimed in our escort in the E-2, a few thousand feet above us. 

After a pause, the order from the Seahawk came through. "Mission confirmed. Parameters are as follows. Target the forward holds with minimum ordnance, and maintain position to provide support until the SEAL insertion is completed. If you take fire, you are authorized to use any and all weapons at your disposal, but provide verbal cues so that we can relay warnings to the SEALs. Happy hunting." 

"Easy for him to say," grumbled my RIO once the comm link to the Seahawk was closed. "Those surface-to-air jobs would work just as well on us as they would on any of CENTCOM's aircraft." 

"Aw, come on, Cash. You don't think I can outfly the USAF and the RAF?" 

"Hey, no offense, sir, but it ain't always just about the flying -- Jorgensen said even you got dinged over Afghanistan!" 

"Jorgensen's got a big mouth, doesn't she?" 

Cash laughed, as did the others, bleeding off a little of the tension. "Roger that, sir." 

It's amazing how much perceptions can change with a little time, I reflected in those few moments of calm before the storm. There was a time when I'd avoided the shipboard aircrews like the plague, simply because I didn't feel I had the right to identify with them anymore. It didn't feel like all that long ago that my career as an aviator had come to an abrupt, painful end, but in reality, it had been nearly eight years since I'd first gotten back in the cockpit and back into the life I'd sought ever since I'd seen my first airplane. It wasn't exactly the life I'd expected or desired, but it was mine, and there wasn't much about it that I'd change if I could. 

So much had changed, about the world at large and about my own world, and yet here I was, flying off the Seahawk again, flying over the Gulf again. Maybe someday someone will explain to me how karma works, because so far it still confuses the hell out of me. 

"All right, kids, lock it in," I told the rest of the group, ready to get down to business. "Red, Bounce and I will take the first run, in that order, and Buck will keep tabs on us. Use your Fox-Twos. And I don't want us to need a second run. One shot, one kill, all right?" 

"Bet your ass, sir!" answered Bounce, also known as Echo Three. 

"Dial it back, Bounce," suggested his wingman dryly. 

"You're just jealous 'cause you have to stay up here and mind the store." 

"Am I going to have to separate you two?" I inquired calmly. "Consider that the last word on the jokes, by the way. From here in, we get serious. Prep for descent on my mark. Three - two - one - mark." 

I pointed my aircraft toward the waves, and the other two followed my lead. 

We leveled off at about four thousand feet, and I eased my thumb over the weapons toggle. Before I could move the selector over to arm my starboard anti-radiation missile, a burst of static issued from the radio, and the command that followed swiftly changed everything. 

"Echo Flight, Bat Cave - _disengage_!" 

I glanced in the mirror, sharing a startled look with Cash. "Say again, Bat Cave?" 

The young, excited voice from the Seahawk was then replaced by the voice of Captain Johnson. "Echoes, climb to 30 and head back here. _Immediately._ Your mission has been aborted." 

Red voiced everyone's collective disbelief. "Hammer - ?" 

_What the hell?_ I was at least as surprised as the others, but I certainly knew better than to question. "You heard the man. Hit the ceiling." 

So we did. As we climbed, my brain flashed through a number of scenarios, trying to determine a reasonable explanation for breaking off the attack. None of them were particularly reassuring. 

"Sir," Cash began slowly, "why would they abort, unless - " 

"It's that 'unless' that has me worried, Cash. Either those ships are manned by innocent civilians, or there's something aboard them that we can't risk blowing up. You want to take odds on which option it is?" 

"No, sir." 

We were back on deck approximately half an hour later, and once again I was heading for the Combat Information Center as rapidly as possible. The other aircrews caught up as they finished their own post-flight plane checks, and before long there were eight dissatisfied aviators crowding into the room, seeking answers. 

The captain immediately called a halt to the murmurs running through the group, merely by turning to face us. "Report to your ready room and wait there for amended orders. Depending on how plans work out, you may be going back up with very little notice, so be ready. Commander, with me." 

I followed him to the briefing room, every step heightening my desire to yell in utter frustration. How much longer was I going to be jerked around before someone told me what was going on? 

As soon as I stepped through the hatch, though, my fears were partially confirmed. Clayton Webb looked up at me from his seat at the table, his expression as impassive as ever. "Sorry to ruin your fun," he remarked, without a trace of humor. 

I dropped my helmet and survival vest on a chair and took a seat, dreading what was to come. As far as I knew, Webb had been mobile throughout the region for the past few days, spending more time at coalition headquarters than anywhere else. If he'd hopped a transport out here in time to beat me back, we had a much more serious problem on our hands than we'd thought. 

"There's something on those ships that we can't risk blowing up," I stated flatly, and waited for him to elaborate. 

Webb nodded grimly. "Reliable information from outside assets points to terrorist control of the ships. Apparently their plan was to hide in plain sight. They banked on the theory that the dock workers would be accustomed to seeing the occasional conventional weapons come through on the black market and wouldn't be particularly concerned. The man you talked to -- " 

"He wasn't lying," I broke in, my feelings on the matter resolute. "He saw what he saw, and nothing else." 

"Yes, he did, and it's a good thing he's got Marines watching him right now, because there are people out there who won't be happy to learn that he tipped us off to anything. The terror informant network in the city is more extensive than any of us had expected." The agent rubbed his eyes wearily. "The containers marked with conventional weapons' designations are just that, and there are more of those than you were told about, too. But nine of the containers marked as ceramic dishware are also concealing chemical warheads for use with medium-range missiles." 

My throat constricted involuntarily as the enormity of what I'd almost done crashed down on me. If we'd fired on those ships and ruptured even one of those warheads, all because I'd come back with incomplete intelligence on the threat ... I'd have been responsible, not once but twice, for the resulting destruction. 

"We had to act on the information we had," Captain Johnson said, seemingly reading my thoughts. "We can rarely afford to wait for only a possibility of learning more. I stand by the decision that was made, and you should, too. Having said that, we need to take another look at the current situation." 

No kidding. "Do they have the capability to sea-launch a chemical attack?" I asked, forcing myself to stay focused on the present. 

Webb shook his head. "Not so far as we know, but that isn't their goal. The plan is for the crews to abandon the ships at an appointed time, before the weapons are detonated by a ballistic attack." 

"Where the hell are these guys getting their hands on the missiles to do this?" 

"A rather impressive array of black market contacts. Russian, mainly, but also some other former Soviet states." Webb gave a snort of contempt. "There's even an opportunistic American working the region who's going to get the full Guantanamo treatment when I get my hands on him, trust me." 

An American selling military equipment. Suddenly a dim flicker of recognition flared in my mind, and I stared at him. "Webb, those reliable outside assets that you referred to a minute ago -- I don't happen to know them, do I?" 

He lowered his gaze for a moment. "Yeah. It's them." 

A cold hand reached into my chest and twisted hard. Of all the possible complications to this mess ... 

Captain Johnson scowled at the both of us. "Someone care to give me a decoder ring?" 

"Colonel Mackenzie and Gunnery Sergeant Galindez, sir. They've been undercover with an al Qaeda cell for a few weeks now, trying to expose -- well, this, I guess." I raked a hand through my hair, trying to clamp down on the swirling emotions clouding my brain. What was I allowed to feel at such a time? Anything? As little as possible, probably. _Come on, suck it up._ "We know the schedule for the attack, then?" 

"We do, and we've got a little time to play with, but not much. Even if they didn't know we were tracking the ships before, they probably know now, so it's possible that they'll move up their timetable. Our immediate objective is to neutralize the ships -- a secondary one would be to take out the base that's carrying out the attack. Thanks to the colonel and Galindez, we've got a confirmed position on the missiles they'll be using." 

"What are you going to do, target Mac's position with her own satphone?" 

Webb looked like he wanted to smack me one for such a blunt protest, but he kept his cool. "They'll get time to evacuate. Hell, you can call her yourself once we get things coordinated with CENTCOM. But let's get back to the previously identified immediate objective, all right?" 

The ships. Right. God, did I need to get my head in the game. 

"We need a disabling strike that won't allow them an opportunity to use their weapons," the captain said, opening a folder that listed the battle group assets at his disposal. "Targeting their engine rooms will at least prevent them from getting any closer to shore, but there's still a risk that the crews will go kamikaze and detonate one of the warheads." 

I spoke up instinctively, before the thought was fully formed. "I seriously doubt that will happen, sir." 

Johnson glanced up. "Can you explain that assertion, Commander?" 

"The terrorists' plan is to hit the ships at a specific time, after the crews have already bailed out. They don't have any intention of going down with the ship. They're willing to kill, but they're not willing to die." 

Webb turned to the captain. "Knowing that, can the SEALs go undetected long enough to get aboard and disable both the engines and the crews?" 

Johnson folded his arms, and I thought I saw a hint of a smirk. "They're SEALs, Mr. Webb. That's what they do all day and dream about all night. Yes, they can get it done. I'll give the order -- those ships could get closer to shore every second. You, on the other hand, have an air assault to plan, so I suggest that you get with the CAG and open up a line to Headquarters. Commander Rabb, Petty Officer Coates was forward-thinking enough to arrange quarters for you while you were gone. Get some rack time. CAG will let you know if he needs you." 

Mechanically, I came to attention as he left the room, feeling slightly numb. So much was happening, and I felt like I understood precious little of it. 

Vaguely aware that I was being watched, I turned toward Webb. "The skipper gave me a break, not you. This is your project, isn't it? Go do it." 

The agent waited a moment before replying. "Why do you always have to qualify everything as 'my plan' or 'my mission'? I know what my responsibilities are, but I'm not the one who packed a chemical warhead in a crate of salad plates." 

"No, but Mac and Gunny sure didn't decide to infiltrate al Qaeda on their own, did they?" I regretted the words almost as soon as I said them; not out of any deference to Webb, but because they were a little to revealing about my state of mind. 

It was too much to hope that he wouldn't pick up on that. As much as I typically hate to admit it, Clayton Webb is extremely well trained in all forms of intelligence gathering, human sources included. He knew perfectly well where my thoughts lay. "Mac's a big girl. She can take care of herself, and she'd deck you for trying to do it for her." He paused briefly, and I felt his gaze on me again. "Actually, she wouldn't deck you for that, would she? Anyone else she would, but not you." 

I wasn't at all comfortable with the idea of discussing that implication with him, so I chose to ignore it. "You know what I'm talking about. If we go forward with this attack, we'd better have a damn good reason to believe that our people are completely and totally out of the way." 

"Nobody's arguing with that. All I'm saying is that we're in phase one of this, and you're jumping ahead to phase fourteen." Webb stood up. "Listen to the captain for once and get some sleep." 

With no better ideas on how to improve the situation, I decided to take their advice. The billeting officer directed me to a stateroom, where a note was sitting on the table next to my bag. 

  
_Sir -- Don't worry about updating Admiral Chegwidden tonight. Since it's midday back home, I'm on my way to call him now before I hit the rack. If you need me, I'm going to be hanging out in the legal office in the morning -- they look like they could use the help. Hope things went well up there.  
Good night, sir -- Coates_

  
_Thanks, Jen,_ I thought, somewhat bleakly. _But it looks like we're just getting started._

There was only one thing I could think of that might restore some order to my chaotic existence. I wouldn't be able to say much, but I was willing to take whatever I could get. I powered up my laptop and logged into my email, hoping against hope that I'd be able to reach her in some tiny way. 

To be continued... 


	4. Chapters 7 & 8

'Collateral Damage' - Part Four  
Authors: AeroGirl and Daenar  
Disclaimer: See Part One **Chapter Seven** Wednesday  
2023 Local - 1553 ZULU  
Suburbs of Zaranj  
Afghanistan The small onyx pearls felt cool and smooth in my hand. As I was silently sitting in my armchair, pretending to be listening to the happy chatter that was filling the room, I was distractedly twirling the string of pearls between my fingers. My friend Itrat, the muezzin's wife, had given it to me earlier, hugging me tightly and telling me how happy she was for me that I was finally pregnant with my first child. With a wink, she had then told me that, although Vajih was hoping for a son, she was sure that I was going to have a girl, that the prayer chain was for her and that I should call my little girl Anusheh. 

_Anusheh - fortunate._

I couldn't quite fight the smile. 'Anusheh Rabb' sounded entirely too weird... 

Whenever my thoughts got to this point, I told myself to get a grip and let it go. Wishful thinking, Mackenzie. Block it out of your mind for another year. Patience. And yet, I couldn't help it. I could be sure that ere long, my thoughts would again wander off in a direction that was still off-limits. 

Compared to not even 24 hours ago, my state of mind had done a 180-degrees about-face. Ever since I had gotten off the phone with Webb last night, I had spent the time pacing the small living-room like a lion in a cage, praying, swearing, hoping... When Gunny had returned from the group meeting, I had instantly filled him in and from the look on my face, he had immediately come to the right conclusions about what was going on inside me. 

I envied him and Harm. I even envied Coates. They could at least do something whereas all I could do was sit and wait. And it was driving me crazy. It wasn't so much the fact that Harm's life might be in danger. As long as he didn't take fire he would be relatively safe 'up there'. I was more afraid that he might break from his immense feeling of guilt, should he happen to cause death and destruction in such unimaginable quantities. Something would die within him, and there would be nothing I could do to help him. 

I had checked my mailbox every hour, and finally, finally... just after 0400 local I had found what I had been so desperately waiting for. The email was short and extremely vague but it made me blink away sudden tears of relief. 

  
_>> Dear Mac, _

I just wanted to let you know that all is safe over here. I hope all's well with you, too. Things are starting to get crazy but I promise I'll try to stay in touch. 

Take care, will ya?  
Harm 

  
A next-to-no-info mail for everyone else. For me, a rare moment of insight into my best friend's mind, for once ridded of the firm walls that he normally keeps up around himself. 

'Dear Mac.' 

Not 'Hey, Ninja Girl' or 'Howdy, Stranger'. Just 'Dear Mac'. So simple and yet so revealing. This line said more about how he was feeling than many words could have. He was opening a door for me to draw near because he somehow needed to connect with me. Consciously or unconsciously - I don't know. But the meaning was unmistakable. 

Apparently, he didn't know exactly how much I knew about his mission and about what he had just gone through. The fact that he didn't allude to anything specific told me that even now, he was still trying to protect me, that he didn't want to upset me in case I hadn't heard yet about the near-disaster. This was his understanding of 'need to know'. Obviously, I didn't need to know any details about an operation that might have forever changed his life or even ended it, but hadn't. And it was equally obvious that he had but a vague feeling yet about what he had been spared. The full emotional impact would come later. 

I didn't feel like going too much into 'heart talk' either, at least not until the tension had lessened, so I decided to keep my answer just as short. Only one word would hint at my state of mind - if he wanted to pick up on it, fine by me. If not, there would be other occasions. Right now, all I wanted was to reassure him that he didn't need to worry about me, either. Resolutely squaring my shoulders with a slight sniffle and smiling a little, I typed my quick reply: 

  
_>> Harm, _

Thank you for letting me know. Don't worry - I'm fine. 

Stay out of trouble, okay?  
See you soon. 

Sarah 

  
************************************ 

  
After school, I had been invited to my usual weekly wives tea-circle while Gunny met with the respective husbands. We had contemplated whether I should excuse myself and stay home, claiming to feel sick because of my pregnancy, in order to monitor the men's conversation. But we had eventually decided against it. The attempted air-strike hadn't gone unnoticed by the group. The Muslim Brotherhood was furious and had sworn death to whoever had betrayed them. 

The terrorists were now trying to somehow speed up their timetable for the missile attack. But since they had to coordinate everything with our friends in Basra, this would most probably turn out to be a fruitless endeavor. And they knew it - a fact that made them angrier still. So what Gunny and I needed now was to keep our cover intact at all costs. We needed to show normalcy. 

Desperately. 

Subsequently, I had plastered my nicest mother-to-be smile to my face, had patiently endured an entire 15 minutes of hugging, kissing and well-wishing and then had settled down in Itrat's tea-parlor, glad to get rid of my _Chador_ for a while and to have a few moments for emotional chill-out. 

Gunny had already warned me that a few members of the group were harboring a yet unproven suspicion against me. Who out of their middle could possibly have let slip something about the convoy's position to the Americans? Only the woman, eternal Eve, the personification of evil. 

The consequence was that I was now desperately trying to wipe out any remaining traits of the jarhead within me. Walking in the streets, I hunched even more, drawing my _Chador_ closer. Whenever a man crossed my way, I let him pass more reverently than ever, trying to blend into my surroundings. I gritted my teeth and bit back witty replies when my male pupils thought teasing their teacher was real fun. I continued to pretend that I enjoyed exchanging housekeeping-gossip with my fellow housewives and I seemingly gave in to the physical effects of my pregnancy, walking slowly, needing to sit down, vanishing into the bathroom to heave. Seeing me this weak, the Marine within me had started hoping the ground would just open up and swallow me. 

Galindez could be glad that somehow the Latin-American macho genes were still present in his personality. His wife had become as uninteresting as anything to him. If he ever looked at me, he'd frown. But he was all the more jovial towards the other men, finally feeling secure enough linguistically to become a little more talkative and make real friends. 

  
************************************* 

  
When Gunny returned from his male get-together, I was already home, pondering whether or not to send another few lines westward. The Gunny's face made me push away my idle thoughts, though. Deep lines of concern were furrowing his forehead. 

"Hey, Gunny, what's the matter?" I immediately put down my mug, removed my feet from the couch and got up to get him some coffee. 

"You are, ma'am" he replied with a sigh, "At least for the group. More and more of them believe I made a mistake dragging you with me." 

I handed him his cup, which he acknowledged with a small smile and a nod. "But I thought those people trusted you," I stated with a slight frown. 

"Oh, they do, ma'am," he replied. "And they keep telling me that it wasn't my fault. That we had to use you because of your English but that you must have leaked something out about what they're planning." 

I threw my hands up in exasperation about their prejudices. "But how should I have done that?" I asked no one in particular. "When I was radioing, I was talking to al Qaeda in Basra. There was no one on the line to whom I could have passed on information. Everyone heard me and I couldn't possibly be sure that no one would understand what I was telling them. Just what are they thinking I did?" 

Sighing, Gunny took a thoughtful sip of his coffee and I saw his features relax for a moment as the warm, aromatic liquid was running down his gullet. Then he again turned to me. "None of them speaks English, ma'am. They think Kalesky might be working for the government after all. You might be so weak as to have a crush on him and you might have told him when we were scheduled to confer with Basra base. Then you could easily drop a few hints, just inherent in your choice of words. That's the general opinion. Someone even suggested I have a paternity test done once our child is born." Gunny's grin didn't even halfway reach his eyes. 

"Me and Kalesky? Great God..." I mumbled, disgusted beyond belief. Then I emptied my mug with a resolute swig. "So the group's sure I'm the culprit?" 

Pursing his mouth, Gunny paused a moment before answering. "Yes and no, ma'am. Most of them do, I think, but not the people that matter. The Magharis don't, for example. Kourosh himself considerably smoothed the seas in the discussion. The imam trusts you and so does the muezzin. With Faezi I'm not so sure. And the others... well, without much education it's easy to find some scapegoat to blame." 

"Then what exactly is the situation?" 

"For the present it would seem that we're safe, ma'am. The imam maintains that we shouldn't have agreed to cooperate with a Sunnite cell at all. He made a valid point stating that anyone who didn't believe in the rightful succession of the Prophets couldn't be trusted to be a true example of Allah's warriors. And he underlined his accusations with quite a few quotes from the Koran. For once, the muezzin didn't disagree and the Magharis seconded them. If the four most important members of a terror cell stand this united, I seriously doubt that any 'enlisted' member would dare to start a mutiny." 

I pulled my feet up on the couch, embraced my legs and rested my chin on my knees, thinking. I hated the idea of having the Gunny do all the work without me to at least watch his six. But I realized that we had no choice. I had been exposed to public suspicion. There would be nothing to gain from my active participation anymore. On the contrary: the prejudice against me might reflect on Galindez, too, and we would lose our insight into al Qaeda altogether. 

"I guess all I can do from now on is monitor your proceedings, Gunny," I said, the frustration evident in my voice. 

"I'm afraid so, ma'am." The Gunny didn't look happy at all at this prospect. "If I may..." he stopped, unsure how to proceed. 

I only gave him a weary smile and waved consent. 

"Ma'am, you might want to act sick, due to your pregnancy. That would get you out of the line of fire." Gunny looked as if he were already scanning the room for any possible cover, clearly counting on my anger about his protectiveness. 

He was quite right. "Galindez, you sound like Commander Rabb now," I stated pointedly, indignation showing in my voice. "I do think I can handle teaching a bunch of kids how to read." 

Gunny stood his ground. "Excuse me, ma'am, but I think it might indeed be better if you stayed indoors for a little while. I won't be able to get to you fast enough if any of those lunatics decides to take matters into his own hands and do away with you." 

This guy damned sure knew how to push my buttons. 'Harm's bad influence,' I thought grimly, feeling my temper rise. "Gunny - don't. I'm going to school tomorrow morning, acting just as if everything was fine. There's nothing to worry about, so don't make up things, okay?" 

Trying hard not to flinch at the icy undertone my voice had taken up, the Gunny made one last attempt to convince me to comply. "Respectfully, ma'am, I think there's reason enough to worry about your safety and you won't have to face Commander Rabb and tell him you were hurt. I will." 

"That's enough, Gunny," I stated curtly, trying to stay calm. 

"But with all due respect, ma'am..." 

"I said 'enough', Gunnery Sergeant!" As I jumped to my feet, Galindez immediately followed suit, coming to attention under my killing stare. I took my time to slowly step close until my nose was within inches of his. With the same deadly calm that had proven so effective back on the Watertown, I now let Gunny know that he had decidedly overstepped certain boundaries. "Gunnery Sergeant Galindez, this is still my mission. You're under my command. It is my prerogative, and only my prerogative, to decide how we'll proceed in this matter, and it is my conviction that the only way to act normal and save our cover is to go on with this mission just as it was planned! Do - I - make - myself - clear?" 

My voice had risen considerably by the time I had finished. If possible, Galindez straightened even more, his eyes staring right through me into the great nothing. 

"Ma'am, yes, ma'am!" 

"Dismissed," I slowly hissed. 

Men could be such a nuisance. 

Thursday  
0712 Local - 0242 ZULU  
Suburbs of Zaranj  
Afghanistan The morning air was chilly and I wrapped myself tightly into the thick wool of my _Chador_ as I walked along the narrow street that led from our house up to the main road where the district school was located. My anger still hadn't completely dissipated and the brisk walk in the cold desert wind was just what I needed to wear me out enough to be believable in my role as a docile woman suffering from excessive morning sickness. Once on the main road, I would slow down and put up my pained face, but until then I really enjoyed the exercise. 

The sun had barely risen, leaving my path in the dark still because of the long shadows the close house-walls were creating. There was not a soul to be seen yet, but that, too, would change once I'd reach the main road. 

I was so caught up in concentrating on the rhythm of my power walk that I didn't see it coming. Before could react, I felt myself pinned to a wall between two of the houses on the left side of the street. A hand covered my mouth to keep me from screaming. 

Trying to make out who my attacker was, I found that he had chosen the spot well. No sunray had yet made its way down here between the massive walls and it was too dark to make out any distinct details. I gasped when I felt something cold and sharp being pointed at my throat. 

_"Scream and you're a dead woman, Maryam Goshtasbi,"_ a hoarse voice whispered into my ear. 

I swallowed and nodded, signaling I had understood. My attacker removed his hand from my mouth. 

_"What do you want from me?"_ I managed to get out in a voice that I hoped didn't convey anything of my Marine mode that had, of course, instantly kicked in. 

_"From you? Nothing,"_ the voice continued, seeming slightly amused. I felt a sharp pain where the knife was touching my skin. The voice continued: _"What we'd really want would be to have you out of the way once and for all. Women are of no use in a Holy War like ours. They only mess things up. Or worse, they sabotage them."_

_"Then why are you doing this?"_ I whispered, tingeing my voice with a rather realistic quiver while trying to analyze the situation and come up with a plan. 

_"Because,"_ the owner of the voice seemed to revel in what he thought was me panicking, _"Vajih told us you were worthy of our trust. While I wouldn't bet a single Afghani on that, I still take your husband to be a man of honor. So, actually, we're doing you a favor, Maryam. I think my blade has told you that normally, you'd already be dead. But I'll be merciful, for Vajih's sake, and spare you. This time. _

"But consider yourself warned. We'll watch your every move, Maryam. We'll be there, whether you're awake or asleep, whether you're at home or elsewhere. We'll observe you in whatever you'll be doing. And should we ever get a hint that you're bonding with the enemy, the cut will go much deeper than this!" 

With his last word, the assaulter tore his knife away in a swift movement that had me suck in my breath, trying not to cry out in pain as I felt the blade slice my skin. While I was still trying to regroup and force my pulse back to normal, I became aware that my assaulter had vanished. 

I could tell that the cut was only superficial but it hurt and had started to bleed like hell. Pressing my fingers on the wound and feeling like strangling myself, I started to stumble back home as quickly as I could, my vision suddenly blurry. 

Luckily, I hadn't yet covered much of a distance from our house, so within mere minutes, I was desperately fumbling with my key in a vain attempt to open the door with my left, terribly trembling hand. 

Seconds later, Gunny opened and his eyes went wide with horror at seeing me. He quickly pulled me in and closed the door, locking it firmly. Then he swept me up in his arms and carried me into my bedroom, lowering me on my mattress. 

"Good God, ma'am!" he gulped out tonelessly, reaching for the first-aid kit that I kept right under my bed. 

"No big deal, Gunny," I croaked out while he applied a sterile pressure bandage to my throat. 

"Whatever you say, ma'am," he muttered dryly, avoiding my glance. 

I felt my cheeks starting to burn with fresh anger - at his insolent remark, but a lot more about my own foolishness not to have trusted his judgment. I owed him an apology. Thanking God that it wasn't Harm whom I was talking to, I swallowed my pride. "Look, Gunny, about last night..." 

Galindez gently cut me off, still not looking at me. "No offense taken, ma'am." He produced a few strips of leucoplast from the med kit and firmly fixed my bandage. 

"No, let me finish," I objected. "You had more insight into the situation. I should have relied on your judgment instead of insisting on my plan." 

Only now did Galindez meet my eyes, the barest hint of a smirk showing on his face. "Permission to speak freely, ma'am?" 

"Granted," I complied, dreading what was coming. 

"You tell Commander Rabb what you told me, ma'am. I don't have a death wish." 

I had to grin despite the pain. "I will, Gunny. Thanks." 

"You're welcome, ma'am. What about school?" 

I sighed in defeat. "All right. Tell them your pregnant wife is unwell." 

Man, would Harm be in his element right about now. 

**Chapter Eight** 1342 Local - 0942 Zulu  
USS Seahawk - Approximately 65 nautical miles SE of the Strait of Hormus She signed it 'Sarah.' 

Damn. Clearly, she'd understood everything I'd attempted so clumsily to convey in my brief message, but now I wasn't sure how to interpret the reply. Either something was happening on her end that had her feeling frustrated or vulnerable or both, and she was reaching out for whatever contact she could get ... or for some reason, she simply wanted to be Sarah to me right now. Actually, both could have been true, for all I knew. Or maybe neither. God, this method of communication was getting on my nerves. 

I heard a rapping on the steel hatch, and then a voice in the corridor outside. "Commander, you're wanted in CIC." 

"On my way," I called, shutting the laptop down. The last thing I needed was for someone to see just how many emails had been bouncing back and forth between this ship and an undercover asset in theater. Secure email is pretty damn secure, but if someone were to somehow gain access to her computer itself, a message marked 'navy.mil' waiting in her inbox would be tough to hide. It surprised me to think that I hadn't considered that risk before this. Obviously Mac had been willing to take it, and I knew she'd take every precaution to erase the messages, but I still should have known better. I should have prioritized her security over my need to connect with her. Damn. 

The CAG was waiting in the Combat Information Center, studying a printout of target coordinates. I didn't have to ask what the target was. We didn't dare launch against the terrorist camp before the convoy was secure, for fear that they might arm some or all of their weapons upon hearing that their comrades had been attacked. Now that the SEALs had had a chance to thoroughly plan their insertion and identify the most effective opportunity - just before midday prayers - they were set to act, and consequently, so were we. "We're go, CAG?" 

"We are," he confirmed. "2040 tonight. I assume that you're comfortable with the same strike package as the convoy strike? Buck, Red, and Bounce, with an eye in the sky to cover your sixes?" 

"Fine by me, sir." That spike of adrenaline that usually accompanied the assignment of a new mission was noticeably absent this time. Instead, there was this knot in the pit of my stomach, serving as a constant reminder of the possible consequences of this particular strike. "Any word yet on the SEALs?" 

"They launched from the Reuben James about an hour ago. We should be getting something soon." The CAG's lip curled ruefully. "Of course, if we get word to go to battle stations, that'll answer the question for us." 

Great. That's a thought I really want to hold on to. "Aye, sir." 

"Pre-flight briefing will be at 1900. I suggest using some of your remaining time to familiarize yourself with the terrain. This is an area that coalition forces haven't had much experience in." Handing me a file, he turned back to the display in front of him. "Dismissed." 

On my way out of CIC, I passed Webb in the corridor. "You heard?" he asked without elaboration. 

"I heard." I held out a hand to him, palm up. 

Comprehending, Webb handed me a slip of paper with a series of numbers on it. "The first set is hers. If you get through - " 

"Don't say 'if,' Webb." 

He didn't argue. "_When_ you get through to her, give her the second set. As soon as she and Galindez are clear, they can check in with us using that number." 

"Thank you." I turned in the direction of the communications room. 

"Hey, Rabb." 

I turned back impatiently, not wanting to delay this warning. "Yeah?" 

"She's gonna be fine, you know." 

Coming from Webb, that was almost a Hallmark moment. Forcing a smile, I replied, "Sure." 

The comm room was operating with its typical calm efficiency when I arrived. The officer in charge had apparently been told to expect me, because he immediately led me to a station in the corner. I had to wonder whether Webb had requested that small concession to privacy. 

I'd told him not to say 'if,' but the truth was, I was very worried that I might not be able to reach Mac or Gunny. It was the middle of the day, and they could easily both be out - in fact, it was likely. I might have to keep trying for some time, since satellite phones didn't exactly utilize voicemail. But there was no real choice. She'd simply have to answer. The alternative was more than I could bear to consider. 

Blessedly, not long after I donned the headset and entered the numbers, I heard a series of clicks, the faint echo of a satellite connection, and the weary yet unmistakable voice of my partner. 

"Maryam." 

In spite of the situation, I had to smile. "Is that what you're calling yourself these days, Marine?" 

"Harm!" Her voice brightened considerably, and I thought I heard a note of relief in it. "God, it's good to hear your voice, sailor." 

"Trust me, the feeling is very much mutual. You have no idea how glad I am that I caught you, but why aren't you at school?" 

There was a split-second of hesitation, beyond the normal time lag, before she replied. "I didn't go today. Force protection issue." 

That didn't sound promising. "You okay?" I immediately asked. 

"Sure. We're just being careful. What about you? The strike was called off in time?" 

"Thanks to you, yeah. Two SEAL teams are securing the convoy as we speak. No word on casualties yet, but nothing's been detonated, so we're pretty optimistic." 

There was another pause before Mac's voice returned, and I could almost feel her tension through the connection. "Harm, they're moving up their plans as fast as possible. The attack could be carried out in less than a day. There's no way the boarding parties will be able to secure the cargo and remove the chemical agents in that amount of time." 

"I know. That's why I called. I need you and Gunny to get the hell out of Dodge. Don't worry about how your cover will hold up. Just do whatever you have to in order to get yourselves at least twenty klicks out of town by 2030 local time tonight." 

Her response was tinged with quiet understanding. "You're coming in, aren't you?" 

"Mac, we have to prevent that attack. Your intel's been great - the civilian risk will be extremely low." 

"I wasn't asking about the strike in general. I understand how necessary that is. I was asking about you." 

I shut my eyes for a moment, knowing how my original line of work tended to affect her. An apology hovered on the tip of my tongue, but this wasn't the time. Instead, I tried to keep my response upbeat. "They're short some pilots out here, and I do have a somewhat unique perspective on the ROEs." 

"I'll bet." I heard her soft sigh, and then the jarhead shield went up. "I can't say I'll be crushed to leave this little paradise behind, but this probably means I won't get the pleasure of nailing Kalesky's ass personally." 

I knew she was only trying to keep the conversation light, as I had, but suddenly I couldn't muster up the courage to play along anymore. Too much about this plan still scared the hell out of me. "If possible, head for the coalition camp near Kadesh. Here's the contact number. If you can't raise the Seahawk on the satphone, the Canadian regiment will be able to put you on the 21MC." 

She took the numbers down, still sounding uncertain. "Keep your altitude up, okay? These guys have got enough Stingers to really wreck up everyone's day." 

"I'm not worried about Stingers. I'm worried about you two getting out of there." I recognized the edge in my own voice, but felt fairly powerless to restrain it. "I've got pre-flight in about five hours, wheels up in less than seven. I really don't want to be wondering where you are at that point." 

"I understand." 

_No, you don't,_ I wanted to shout, tightening my hand around the console's edge until my knuckles whitened. How could anyone understand this? Searching for a way to get my message across without putting too much on her shoulders, I finally said, "I'm not kidding, Sarah. Be careful. We've got a lot left to do in this world." 

She was silent for a moment, and I knew the use of her name had registered with her. "That we do," she replied at last. "I'll go alert Gunny. We'll be on line with an all-clear for you ASAP." 

"All right. I'll see you soon, okay? Somehow." 

"I'll be looking forward to it. Take care." 

The line disconnected. I sat back in the chair and just stared at the console for a while. A small digital readout displayed the current time in glaring, unblinking lights. I fought the urge to slam my hand against it. Violence against chronometers wasn't likely to affect the passage of time one way or the other. 

_Come on, Mac. Get out of there and call before I lose my mind._

  
1534 Local - 1134 Zulu 

  
Never before had I had such difficulty finding ways to waste time aboard a carrier. I'd been over the strike preparations more times than I could count. An hour in the gym was my limit: if I truly put all my fears and frustrations into a workout, I'd be too tired to fly. The movie on the ship's TV channel was some inane buddy comedy that only reminded me of how young the majority of this crew was. Christ, how did I end up here? I didn't come out here to take a combat mission. Shouldn't it be someone younger, someone better trained - someone who wouldn't have the obstacle of knowing the personnel on the ground so well ... 

Over the roar of the waves, I could barely make out a metallic thumping from behind me. When I turned from the rail, Coates was standing there, her hand resting against the bulkhead. 

"You don't need to knock out here, Petty Officer," I called to her, attempting a wan smile. "It's not a private area." 

"No, sir, but those looked like some pretty private thoughts." She stepped out to join me on the fantail, zipping up her jacket. "I've been looking all over for you, sir. Thought you'd be hanging out somewhere closer to the jets." 

Almost without thinking about it, I uttered a sentiment that hadn't been true for over ten years. "I don't particularly want to look at the jets right now." 

The young woman blinked. "This mission's going to be that bad?" 

"That's going to depend on a lot of things." I leaned my forearms on the rail. "This camp we're hitting - it's where Colonel Mackenzie and the Gunny have been operating." 

Coates's eyes widened, and she searched awkwardly for a response. "She's bugging out, isn't she, sir?" 

"She said she would. But so far nobody's heard from them, and it just keeps getting closer and closer to go time." 

"Shit," she breathed, moments, before a look of panic flashed across her face. "I mean - I'm sorry - " 

"No, that's pretty much how I'd summarize the situation, too." I shot a rueful grin in her direction. 

Coates shook her head. "If you get to the target and they haven't gotten clear ... will you - " 

"Blow my brains out?" This time I couldn't even fake a smile. 

Somehow, that didn't shake her as badly as I would have expected. "I was going to say, will you be able to drop your weapons. Without knowing for sure if they're safe." 

It was a question I shouldn't have tried to answer aloud, especially to a junior enlisted, but I needed to. I needed someone to bear this crushing burden with me, if only for an instant. "I swear to God, Coates, I don't know," I whispered. 

To her credit, she didn't unravel when confronted by the complete paralysis of a senior officer. Instead, she spoke in a measured tone. "Commander, with all due respect and then some, maybe you shouldn't fly this one." 

"Nobody should have to fly this one. Nobody should have to take an action that he knows could kill friendlies or civilians. But it happens, because it has to, and the least I can do is keep up my part of it all." 

"Sir, this isn't like providing close air support for the infantry. Knowing Americans could be in the strike zone is one thing. Knowing that someone you have a - " She fumbled for the right word. " - connection with ..." 

"That connection is the reason I have to go." I knew that this was going to sound bizarre, but I wasn't in the mood to care. "I told Mac once that I always know where she is, and to a certain extent, I believe it. When I went down in the Atlantic, she was the one who directed the SAR bird to my location. I guess I'm hoping that whatever that little trick is, it might help me get a feel for where she is when we launch. Maybe just a general sense of direction would make the difference." 

Coates gave a soft sigh, and I shook my head. "I know. Go ahead and report me for that psych eval." 

"No, I was just thing about how romantic that would sound if it wasn't really happening." 

I probably should have tried to contest that assessment, just on general principle, but she was right. The person who meant the most to me in the world might be sitting in the middle of a target that I'd been ordered to destroy. There's a concept Shakespeare never dreamed up. 

"She's a Marine," I said firmly, hoping to convince us both. "So is the Gunny. They'll find a way to get clear." 

The petty officer nodded bravely. "They're probably already clear, sir. Just having communications issues." 

"Good answer. Keep repeating that to me for the next few hours, whenever I look like I'm getting close to freaking out." After a few moments of silence, I turned to face her fully. "Listen, I keep forgetting to say this, but you've been doing a really great job out here." 

Coates was caught off-guard by that, and it took her a moment to decide how to respond. "Thank you, sir. But I've just been doing what was directed." 

"You weren't directed to spend your off-hours helping the fleet JAGs, but you did." 

She looked embarrassed. I got the sense that she wasn't accustomed to receiving praise. "It's not like I had anything better to do." 

"That's not the point, though, is it?" I returned my gaze to the horizon. "I just wanted you to know that I wrote you up for a commendation medal. The nomination package is on my computer, so if something should happen on this mission, you are hereby ordered to make sure it gets submitted, all right?" 

Coates paled. "Don't say things like that, sir," she begged, giving a shaky laugh. "You pilots are supposed to act like you're bulletproof. It makes the rest of us feel better." 

"Oh, yeah. Sorry." I tossed her a crooked smile. "Seriously, Jen. Thanks for everything. Including this." 

"Least I could do, sir." She followed my gaze out across the breaking waves. "Do you mind if I stick around for a while?" 

The instant she said it, I suddenly realized that I'd much rather have company than be alone with thoughts such as these. I wondered if she'd realized it, too. "Be my guest." 

Sometimes I wish I had a little sister. I think I know just what I'd want her to be like. 

To be continued... 


	5. Chapters 9 & 10

'Collateral Damage' - Part Five  
Authors: AeroGirl and Daenar  
Disclaimer: See Part One **Chapter Nine** 1507 Local - 1037 ZULU  
Mac and Gunny's house  
Suburbs of Zaranj  
Afghanistan Although I had ended the connection myself, I kept staring at the telephone in my hands, twirling it around, trying to mentally regroup. Five hours and 23 minutes to wrap things up and get the hell out of here. It sounded like an easy thing to do but I was sure Murphy would want a hand in this, too. I'd be foolish to hope that for once, a Webb operation would go smoothly. Harm was involved. No need to say anything else. 

Had my concern for him not threatened to choke me, I would have laughed at the irony of the situation. He was ordered to carry out a mission that he knew well might easily kill me - if he wasn't be killed first by the missiles that I of all people had acquired for the people he was ordered to eliminate. Not even Webb could have made up a scenario like this. But, of course, the two of us were destined to end up in the middle of it. I had long since given up wondering if God would ever decide that we needed a break. 

After a full three minutes and 18 seconds, I finally managed to get a grip and focus on what lay ahead. I needed to contact Gunny. ASAP. 

Luckily, just like the military, the Red Half-Moon supplied its employees with sat phones. I knew I wasn't supposed to have a phone at home but Gunny and I had agreed that, should I ever need to call him, he would act as if I were a supply contact back in Isfahan. I dialed his number. 

["Goshtasbi."] 

"Gunny, it's me." 

[_"Hello Abtin! How are things? When's the convoy due?"_] 

No one would have noticed the instant wariness that rang in my colleague's voice, probably not even our coworkers. But living under the same roof had taught me a few things about Victor Galindez: the adrenaline level in his blood had just about tripled. 

"I got a call from Commander Rabb, Gunny. A squadron is coming in for the camp at 2030 tonight. We need to get clear and confirm once we reach the Canadians at Kadesh." 

[_"Understood. I think I left it at home. I'll go get it and you can call me again in half an hour. Have a good trip!"_] 

The line went dead. Bless the Gunny for his quick thinking. He'd be here in ten and I was determined to have our evac packs ready by that time. I quickly changed into BDU pants, boots and a brown t-shirt, throwing into my backpack whatever I thought might be worth taking with me. When I came across the little prayer chain, I stopped, smiling despite the situation. 

_Anusheh Rabb._

Well, maybe not, but the pearls in my hand felt like little lucky charms. Perhaps, if I just believed it firmly enough, they would keep us safe tonight, Gunny and me, and Harm, somewhere up there. Quickly I wound the little chain twice around my left wrist and put on a long-sleeved sweater. 

22 minutes later I was sitting on my bed, my _Chador_ ready to be thrown over, two packed backpacks beside me, the house in neat order. 

No sign of the Gunny. 

It was then that I began to worry. Contemplating if I should try to call him again, I finally sighed and decided against it. It would be too obvious if he got two sat-phone calls within one hour without having been home in between like he had said he would. 

But what the heck was taking him so long? Impatiently, I drummed a little salsa on my thighs with my hands. 

There! The key in the lock. Finally... 

I jumped to my feet, hoisted up all the baggage onto both my shoulders and staggered to meet Galindez in the doorw... 

_Jesus Christ!_ 'Please, God, don't let this happen! Not now!' 

Galindez was standing in the corridor. He was bleeding from a gash above his right brow, as well as from his nose that was starting to swell. Two men were hovering behind him, pointing handguns at both his temples while three others were coming towards me, rage distorting their features. 

What followed seemed to play out in slow motion. They got to me. I dropped the luggage and tried to fight them. They overpowered me. I got a breathtaking blow to my stomach. They bound my wrists. They gagged me. Then they dragged me up on my feet and in the direction of the door. 

As I stumbled past Gunny, our eyes met, his expression mirroring mine. 'Too late.' 

  
***************************** 

  
All the way to wherever we were going, I was desperately contemplating just how much the terrorists had learned about our mission and - what was even more important - how much they knew about the imminent attack on their camp. I was sure that no one in the group spoke English. They wouldn't have let me - the woman - do their vital correspondence if any of them could have done it, or would they? 

_We'll watch your every move, Maryam..._

They sure had made good on their promise. The sat-phone conversation must have been monitored, that much was self-evident. But which one? Harm's call or mine? Or both? How did they even know I had a sat-phone? Or had they monitored Gunny's? Or did they listen to just about everything that was broadcast to and fro throughout the region? 

We were on the middle bench of an old van whose rear windows had been painted so that no one would be able to see what was inside. Gunny was sitting rigidly beside me while the man on the front passenger seat kept his gun trained on us, daring us to utter a syllable. I was starting to sweat profusely, but not solely because of the _Chador_ they had wrapped me in. It was because, once again, I heard a clock ticking. But this wasn't the calm mental tick-tock I remembered from the day of little AJ's birth. This was the timer to a bomb, cruelly ticking away. An avalanche of sand streaming through a giant hourglass with a deafening roar. A cardiac monitor, mercilessly slowing down until the steady beep told me that a loved person's heart had gone into arrest... 

Swallowing, I fiercely ordered myself not to panic. 1608. There was still time to escape and get a warning to the Seahawk. 'Think, Mackenzie. Think hard. Use that bloody brain of yours, dammit!' 

When the van pulled to a rough stop, the sliding doors were yanked open and I became aware that we had been brought to the camp. The two men from the bench behind us dragged us out of the car and pushed us forward until we arrived at a small warehouse right at the center of the camp. There was nothing inside except a couple of metal chairs and various electronic communication items. 

Instead of making us sit down, the guards made us stand against the backrests of two of the chairs and firmly tied our hands to it. Our legs were spread and the ankles tied to the chair legs. The gag in my mouth was causing me extreme nausea but I deliberately slowed my breathing and lifted my chin as the door opened once again and the Magharis slowly entered the room, together with Amal Faezi. All three stepped close to us and just stared at us, never saying anything. I admit that their stares were intimidating but I held my eyes up. If they wanted me down, they sure as hell would see me fight first. 

The threesome didn't seem to be too interested in the Gunny. On the phone, I had told him what to do, that much was clear even from the tone of my voice. You didn't have to understand English to get the difference in rank. Apparently, a woman who, in her own country, had the power to order men like Vajih Goshtasbi around, was a lot more interesting than the man who accepted her as his superior. Besides, that very woman had obviously succeeded in fooling them. I mentally braced myself for what I was sure would be an experience to remember - if I would be given the chance to. 

They started out with a heavy blow in my face. 

Trying not to moan and ordering the stars in front of my eyes to stay in line, I glared back at Kourosh. 

_"I can't believe we let this happen,"_ he mused in a thoughtful voice, more to himself, although I knew exactly that his words were meant for my ears. _"We let our enemies operate right under our nose. I have to say, you are quite skilled. Impressive. It's a shame - you would have made a good warrior, even though you are a woman."_

I waited, trying to guess where Kourosh would take this. In the meantime, I received another blow to my face, this time to the other side. I bit down my hiss. 

_"So, you told your friends about the ships, did you?"_ Kourosh's voice was as honeyed as it could ever be. _"You were really lucky, you know that? From what we heard from our friends on the vessels, the fighters were almost in firing range when they broke off."_

Damn those emotions. I could refrain from reacting when they struck me. But I couldn't stop my eyes from widening in shock when I learned just how close Harm had come to firing on the convoy. 'God Almighty...' 

Kourosh's face distorted to an ugly grin, showing a row of yellow horse-like teeth. _"Oh... sorry, didn't you know? Just a few minutes later and your sweetheart would have been desperately gasping for non-contaminated air... what a cruel death, Maryam... or should I say Sarah?"_

Okay, that answered at least one of my questions. Harm's call had done the trick. Obviously, al Qaeda had facilities to intercept satellite communication, and they had been monitoring my surroundings, probably ever since the failed attack on the ships had been noticed. No wonder - I had been the one to have all the information, if not on the target, then on the coordinates and the planned time for the terrorist bombing. If our local 'friends' initially hadn't suspected me, Basra Base obviously had. 

Kourosh reached out and, with a disgusted expression on his face, pulled the gag out of my mouth. I had a hard time refraining from spitting into his face. While Faezi removed the cloth from Gunny's mouth and angrily let his fist come down on Galindez' nose again, making him wince in pain, Kourosh stepped still closer to me until our noses were mere inches from one another. Still, I held the eye-contact. 

Rokneddin approached me from the other side. Dangerously calm, he took over. _"You decide, Sarah. Either you tell us what you know and we'll kill you quickly. Or you don't and you will meet Allah's wrath through our hands. Let's start with something simple. Who are you?"_

Drawing a deep breath, knowing full well that it might be the last one I was ever to take without hurting, I squared my shoulders. I was going to answer his question, yes. But he would soon find out that he would get nothing further. 

"Lieutenant Colonel Sarah Mackenzie, United States Marine Corps, service number 401-23-10, current duty station Wash..." 

A powerful slap from Kourosh made me stop. This time, I couldn't refrain from sucking in my breath. Kourosh was wearing three rings on his hand that had made sharp contact with my cheekbone. _"Enough! A Marine colonel. Fine. And who's your 'husband'?"_

Preparing for the full impact of his anger, I glared at him. 

"Lieutenant Colonel Sarah Mackenzie, United States Marine Corps, service..." 

I had focused all my attention on Kourosh, so Rokneddin's kick to my stomach caught me totally off guard. I cried out and gasped, wanting desperately to press my hands where his foot had hit me. 

_"Again: who's he?"_

Gunny spoke up, loud and clear. "Gunnery Sergeant Victor Galindez, United States Marine Corps, service number 108-24..." 

He didn't get any further. 

_"No one asked you, weakling!"_ Faezi's precisely-aimed right hook effectively silenced Galindez as it hit the classic knock-out point. From the corner of my eye, I could see my colleague go down, making the chair he was tied to topple right over him. No one bothered to look. 

Rokneddin pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and took his time to light one. I couldn't prevent myself from starting to tremble, but I never lowered my gaze. 

_"Who's that Commander Rabb you mentioned on the phone?"_

"Lieutenant Colonel Sarah Mackenzie, United States..." 

Swiftly, Rokneddin shoved the sleeve of my sweater up to my shoulder and extinguished his cigarette in the pit of my elbow. I gave a cry of excruciating pain, feeling tears sting in my eyes. 

_"Who is Commander Rabb?"_ Kourosh's question was accompanied by another kick to my stomach. 

I was starting to lose my orientation, arching my body in all directions in vain attempts to ease the pain. I was sobbing now but I let the tears flow. I needed my strength to pull through. 1648. 'Still time to warn the Seahawk.' 

"Lieutenant... Colonel... Sarah Mackenzie... United..." 

Kourosh's left hook made me lose my footing. Just like Gunny, I hit the ground, taking the chair with me. Faezi stepped on my hip, applying his full weight, flattening me completely. 

Rokneddin kneeled down in front of me, looking down into my eyes that I held raised to him. I would not back down. 

_"Your choice, Sarah."_ His voice was almost soothing. _"We'll know how to make you talk, and - courtesy for our special friends - we'll even bring an interpreter so you won't have to bother speaking Farsi while being tortured."_ He drew a dramatic, pitying breath, reaching out and caressing my cheek. _"It's a real pity, you know? For an American, you're almost handsome..."_ He sighed again, nearing his face to mine. 

This time, I did spit him into the eye, making him swear in disgust. He gave the back of my head a rough strike. My already sore cheekbone hit the concrete, making me moan. Something warm and just a little sticky began to trickle down to my jaw. I tasted it as some of it ended up between my lips. My blood. 

Rokneddin's stare had hardened. _"So be it."_ Hearing his voice, I couldn't fight the impression that the room temperature had diminished by at least ten degrees. _"Be sure of one thing, Sarah. Regardless of what you'll tell us or not - we know when to expect your friends. This... what was his name? Harm?" _

The look in my eyes must have confirmed that he was remembering correctly. A thin grin spread on Rokneddin's lips. 

_"I see... Harm. He's your favorite client, right?"_

"You goddamned mothe..." 

My murmur was cut off by another kick to my side. I groaned, squeezing my eyes shut. 

_"Is there anything you'd like to tell me, Sarah?"_

"Lieutenant... Colonel... Sarah..." 

This time, Rokneddin kicked me himself. And he did it with fierce delight. His first hit made me roll to my side, gasping. As if he had waited for the opportunity, he then forcefully planted his foot where I was hoping I would one day carry Harm's child. This kick was my undoing. I broke down, sobbing silently. 

Rokneddin got up. The sound of his voice alone revealed his opinion about women in combat. _"Cry on... we'll leave you alone for a little while. You won't have much breath left to wail once we return and let you feel what it means to oppose yourself to Allah. Maybe you'll find some consolation in the prospect of meeting this... Harm... tonight - in Allah's eternal hell, after we pluck them down, one by one, as soon as they reach the Helmand River. See you later, Sarah."_

I didn't have the power, nor the will, to lift my head. Their steps told me that they had turned and were leaving the room. The slamming of the door confirmed my perception. 

1711. 

The pain in my gut was driving me insane. But what was even worse was the awareness that Harm and his squadron were about to run into a trap. I had little more than three hours to save him. 

Theoretically. 

Looking at it realistically, I had no chance. 

The tears started to flow afresh, kindled by this feeling of being lost and utterly helpless. The certainty of my own death didn't really register in my consciousness. It just didn't matter anymore. 

Just before I gave in to my exhaustion, I somehow thought about the onyx pearls around my wrist. The feel of their polished surface against my skin seemed like a promise of what the future might hold in store for me. For us. 

_We've got a lot left to do in this world..._

'Keep us safe, God, please, keep us safe.' 

Then, the world slipped into darkness. 

**Chapter Ten** 1851 Local - 1451 Zulu  
USS Seahawk - At a classified location in the Persian Gulf Christ Almighty ... I don't know if I can do this. 

For the past few hours, I'd been clinging fiercely to ever word of every military mantra ever devised: "service before self" and "honor above all" and all the purple prose that they could cram into our heads in four years at Annapolis. I'd been trying to force myself to see only the mission, only my duty. And it wasn't working worth a damn. 

"Pre-brief's about to start, sir." 

I had to physically prevent myself from spinning around and knocking Bounce against the bulkhead for that innocent comment. Didn't he get it? No, of course he didn't. How could he? Somehow that was almost as frustrating as the suffocating silence from CIC. It was almost a sound unto itself, the silence: it penetrated every corner of my consciousness, seemingly growing louder as the minutes ticked by. She hadn't called in. And I no longer had the luxury of pretending that her call was coming at any moment. 

On paper, the mission was practically ideal. A clearly defined target with minimum possibility of civilian casualties and maximum likelihood of ensuring that some reprehensible people would never hurt anyone ever again. The others were probably all thinking about how great it would look in their records, and how great it would sound to everyone in the wardroom or the bar back home. I remember days like that, back when these kids were still in high school. All it had taken was one mission, and an unexpected air-to-air engagement over the Gulf of Sidra, to cure me of that particular sort of ignorance. Seeing it resurface in my squadron, even from a harmless talker like Bounce, made me feel so incredibly ancient. 

_This isn't right. I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't have to do this._

And yet some part of me still believed what I'd told Coates a couple of hours earlier. If the mission had to launch without word from Mac or Gunny, then I needed to be the one going, if only because of the slightest chance that my Marine really did possess extrasensory powers of some kind. It wasn't much to pin my sanity to, but it was all I had. 

A persistent, hideous thought kept creeping into my mind; the possibility that she was already dead. Each time it emerged, I savagely beat it back -- not because I was certain it wasn't true, but because I seriously doubted my ability to function rationally once I acknowledged the idea at all. But it wouldn't be deterred, and finally it wrested from me one of the most dire thoughts ever to take hold in my conscious mind. 

_If she's still in that camp when we blow it to pieces, assuming there's any justice in the world, there'll be a Stinger down there with my name on it._

I buried that thought quickly as well, out of guilt for its selfishness, and also because it scared the hell out of me. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Cash approaching with caution. I'd given him a brief synopsis of the situation after our target study session earlier, because a RIO deserved to have a clue about what was going on in his pilot's head. He hadn't expressed any reservations about flying with me, nor would I have expected any. Still, it was probably in his best interests not to mess with me right about now. 

"Nothing yet, sir?" 

I shrugged, not wanting to admit that aloud. "Depends on your definition of 'nothing.' The SEALs now have full control of all three ships. That's something." 

"Yeah, gotta hand it to them. The crews must've known they'd be coming, and they still managed to get the drop on them." Cash shook his head. He was a lieutenant commander, one of the senior RIOs on the boat, and he'd been in the business long enough to have lost most of the rampant idealism that the others displayed. "CAG'll chew you a new one if you're late to pre-flight, sir. Doesn't matter how much the circumstances suck." 

"Yeah, I know." I squared my shoulders and set my face into a mask of non-emotion. "Let's get this over with." 

The pre-flight briefing held no surprises. We had four hard targets, corresponding to the main buildings of the camp, and a half-dozen possible soft targets, depending on how many vehicles were present and the amount of weaponry stockpiled in the area. The missiles that hung from our wings were GPS-guided: "fire and forget" weapons, as they say. Forget? Not likely in this case. 

Because of our distance from the target, we'd be hitting a tanker both before and after the strike. The Air Force had a KC-135 equipped for Navy refueling in the area, which was convenient, since the carrier's Viking refueler had its own duties over southern Iraq. It all looked so straightforward on the board. Launch, tank, drop, tank, trap. If it worked out that way, I'd only have the rest of my life to deal with the consequences. 

_Come on, Mac, where are you?_

We suited up and headed for the deck with little discussion. Pre-flight checks went without a hitch, and at last I had to mount up. The canopy slammed shut over my head with a sense of finality that tore all but the last vestiges of hope from my soul. I could no longer raise my eyes to the hatch, willing it to offer up some young seaman with news of a transmission from Afghanistan. From that point on, I had no choice but to concentrate fully on my aircraft and my mission, or the result would likely be the deaths of still more courageous officers. 

With a silent prayer for forgiveness from both God and Sarah Mackenzie, I saluted the deck officer, and the force of the catapult drove me back into my seat. 

  
****************** 

  
1957 Local -- 1527 Zulu  
Approaching the southwestern border of Afghanistan

"Echo Flight, this is Air Force eight-zero-three. Y'all looking for a floating gas station?" 

"Roger that, Air Force. Slowing to approach." 

Bounce snickered into his radio. "Nice to see that you blue-suiters finally wised up and decided to trade in some of your booms for hoses. What took you so long to figure out that the Navy got it right the first time?" 

"Speak for yourself, Bounce," I told him calmly. "I ended up with stitches once because of a hose-whip that came through my canopy. The Air Force way doesn't look so bad by comparison." 

I could hear the wide grin from the airman on the tanker. "Oh, I like you, sir! Just for that, you get to be first in the pattern." 

"No, Air Force, he gets to be first in the pattern 'cause he's lead and outranks us all," Red commented, a wry smile in her voice. 

"Fair enough, sirs and ma'am -- step right up, Echo Lead. Closure rate fifteen knots." 

My probe engaged easily, and the fuel transfer light obediently came on. "Make sure you get what you paid for, sir," cracked Bounce. "I hear the price of gas has gone down since we came over here and started kicking -- " 

"Lock it up, ladies and gentlemen." I'd had enough at that point. Staying loose en route to the target had its advantages, but there was a such thing as being too loose. "From here on in, we're all business, all right?" 

"Copy that, sir," Red replied promptly, which quieted everyone down. I made a mental note, in a vaguely detached way, to thank her later if possible. She and I had flown together once or twice before this whole mess, and while I had her respect, I knew than she had the respect of the rest of the squadron. Lead or not, I was well aware of my outsider status. The others would jump if I asked, without hesitation: but if Red asked, the answer would have been "how high?" 

Check that - it would have been "how high, ma'am?" 

We did the aviation equivalent of treading water until all five aircraft had tanked, and offered our compliments to the genial airman as we departed the area. 

"Question from the peanut gallery, Hammer," came the voice of Rocky, Buck's RIO. "How sure are we that these guys aren't ready for us?" 

"Approximately as sure as we were when we launched," I answered. "Watcher, you want to update us on that?" 

"That's affirm, Lead, nothing lighting up in the region so far." The Hawkeye's radio officer entered the conversation for the first time. "Best intel says that there's no sophisticated radar SAM capability down there." 

"Then that's what we go with for the moment. But we all know what can happen when you depend too much on 'best intel'." 

"Roger that." 

We continued in silence for a while, each finding our way into the necessary frame of mind for the task ahead. This was the part of the job that "Top Gun" didn't cover: straight and level flight, getting from one place to another, with nothing but time to think, and far too much of it. In this case, the time was filled by a near-constant stream of memories playing across my mind: of courtroom battles and evenings spent strategizing over takeout food; of rainy Norfolk docks, doorways hung with mistletoe and warm spring nights on the admiral's porch; even of ferry rides and terrible misunderstandings. 

God, how blind I'd been. And to think it had only taken a threat to everything I held dear to make me realize it. 

After a few minutes, the Hawkeye radioed again. "Echo Flight, this is our stop. We'll maintain contact from here. Good luck and good hunting." 

"Message received, Watcher. See you back here in a while." I tightened my fingers around the throttle. "Let's close it up, everybody. Two and two." 

Through the last rays of daylight, already sinking out of view, I watched Buck's aircraft close the distance between his wing and mine to a matter of a few meters. If this mission had a point of no return, we were now approaching it at near-Mach speed. 

_All right, ninja-girl, here's your chance. Whatever that thing is that you do, whatever bizarre plane of existence you tap into to locate little girls and idiot aviators - crank it up, because the world's about to go crazy._

To be continued... 


	6. Chapters 11 & 12

'Collateral Damage' - Part Six  
Authors: AeroGirl and Daenar  
Disclaimer: See Part One **Chapter Eleven** 1758 Local - 1328 ZULU  
Deserted warehouse  
Grounds of the terrorist camp  
Outside Zaranj  
Afghanistan Gasping, I woke from my unconsciousness, finding myself still lying on the concrete floor, tied to the metal chair, completely drenched. A puddle of water surrounded me, partly washing away my dried blood. As I looked around, I saw that Gunny was on his feet again, he, too, still tied to the chair beside me. Kourosh and Rokneddin had returned, bringing us back into the play with the help of two buckets full of surprisingly cold water. 

As I struggled to get up despite the heavy chair hindering me, Kourosh stepped up to me and roughly yanked me up. 

_"Time for confessions, Sarah. Don't bother speaking Farsi - we have an interpreter. I know thinking is hard when you're in pain."_

With that he slapped me, thus bringing me back to my true self in full. I quickly scanned my surroundings and saw Rokneddin come near with the interpreter Kourosh had spoken of. I tried to get a good look at him in the dimly-lit room, our eyes met - and we stared. I knew this man and he knew me. It was my friend Ahmad Salimi, the tailor. 

I was astonished to see Salimi here. Although he had never dared to say so openly, I knew that he detested Islamic fundamentalism and was fervently praying that the Karzai government would help reform the society of his country. But I also knew that he was very pessimistic about that ever happening. Upon closer inspection, the old man didn't really look as if he were helping the terrorists of his own free will. They must have dragged him out here, knowing he was fluent in English. 

When he recognized me, his eyes went wide in shock and compassion. Obviously, I had to be looking really battered. 

_"Maryam?"_ he softly called out, his concern evident. Rokneddin at once gave his ribs a nudge with his elbow, making the dignified man wince and then throw him a glance of barely-veiled contempt about his lack of civility. 

_"Salimi, this is the person in question."_ Kourosh had met him halfway across the room and now dragged the tailor over to me. _"She's an American Marine colonel and her name is Sarah Mackenzie. She knows something about this camp being attacked and won't talk. We already let her have a little special treatment but I think we'll have to apply stronger measures. She might not be able to speak Farsi in the process. You will translate. And remember - if your translation differs from what she says, we or our friends are going to find out sooner or later, and then you will regret you ever lived. Is that clear?"_

_"Quite clear, Mr. Maghari,"_ Salimi answered in his polite, agreeable voice. 

Meanwhile, I had noticed with horror that Rokneddin was about to turn the metal chairs that we were tied to into some sort of electric chairs. So that was how they planned on making us talk. Efficient indeed. I wasn't sure how long I would be able to hold my ground once the currents came jolting through my body, grilling me alive. 'Cry, Mackenzie. Cry the pain out of your consciousness until it's over,' I kept telling myself. Looking to my left, I saw that Gunny had his eyes closed as if he were praying for strength. 

_"Move away, I'll test the circuits,"_ Rokneddin eventually spoke up. 

I gritted my teeth. A second later, my body was convulsing in agony as it seemed to burn up from inside. I let out an earth-shattering scream but managed to hold myself upright for the few seconds until Rokneddin disconnected the power. 

Kourosh gave his brother a grimly smiling nod. _"Works."_

I met Salimi's glance that seemed just as pained as my own. He squared his shoulders and addressed Kourosh in a low voice, but not low enough for a Marine to miss the meaning. _"Mr. Maghari, as I am to help you in this, might I make a proposition? If you go on like this, Mrs. Goshtasbi won't have too much time left to tell you anything. I think the safer bet might be to let me try and talk to her first. Hearing her own language and talking to a seemingly sympathetic mind might weaken her resolve. Torturing always makes women even more stubborn."_

Kourosh seemed to ponder Salimi's words for a few moments. Finally, he nodded. _"All right, give it a try, Salimi. We'll stand by right here. You have fifteen minutes. After that, we'll return to our methods."_

Knowing that the pain was only put off a little, I felt inclined to be angry with the man who had tried to spare me somehow. I wouldn't tell anything anyway, so my preference would have been to get it over with as soon as possible. 

Leaning heavily on his cane, Salimi drew near. When he spoke to me, his words came out in such a rush that I almost missed the most important part - but that had obviously been his intention. He spoke with a slight accent but his command of English was amazing. 

"Ma'am, you heard them. Why don't you tell me what you know? Are the Americans going to attack this camp? What are their plans? What is your role in the play? There are only two more guards outside, ma'am. Do you think you can take them out? Please, play weak." While speaking, Salimi had wetted his handkerchief in the puddle on the floor and started to gently clean up the wound on my jaw. 

I immediately got the picture. I let a few tears flow, sobbed a little and gave - at least in my opinion - a rather convincing performance of being torn between having to keep quiet and wanting to be spared. Understanding that he needed something to translate back to them, I decided to give him a snippet of information that the terrorists already had. 

Trying to keep my voice weak and low, I answered. "They... they're coming in through the air... a fighter squadron... tonight... yes, if my... colleague gets off, too... we... we can... is there... a car?" The constant artificial sobbing almost made me choke for real. 

With a seemingly satisfied expression on his face, Salimi turned to the Magharis. _"She says that a fighter squadron is supposed to attack the camp tonight."_

_"We already know that. What are their weapons?"_ Kourosh seemed pleased that Salimi had obviously gotten me to talk, but his impatience was evident. 

Salimi turned back to me and wetted my forehead with his handkerchief. "Keep playing, ma'am... How are the fighters armed? Yes, the brothers' car, right in front of the door. Say you want water." 

I fixed Salimi's glance, amazed. The old gentleman had to know he was risking his life in helping me. But he only winked. 

"I... will tell... but... I need water... they have missiles..." 

_"The fighters are armed with missiles. She says she desperately needs some water. Then she will give more details. If you ask me, she's about to break."_

Surprisingly, Kourosh motioned for his brother to refill one of the buckets and Rokneddin instantly complied. There was still something like respect towards the elder in this society. 

_"Mr. Maghari,"_ Salimi now addressed Kourosh, pretending to have found something in the pocket of my BDU pants. _"You should have a look at this. Could you come over here, for a moment, please."_

With raised eyebrows, Kourosh drew near. What happened then surprised me like few things ever have. Salimi gave me another barely noticeable wink, ensuring my attention. When Kourosh had reached us, the old man pointed at my pocket and when Kourosh bent down slightly and reached for it, Salimi, with a surprisingly powerful blow, brought the brass knob of his cane down on Kourosh's head, making him fall to the floor. I immediately made sure he stayed there, letting myself and the chair drop onto him. Salimi quickly untied me and I at once took Kourosh out for good. 

Millions of thoughts, hopes, questions and words flooded my mind but I efficiently blocked them out. I had to free Gunny before Rokneddin came back. I ran over to where he was observing the scene, his eyes wide. 

"Grab something heavy, Gunny, and go to the door. Make sure Rokneddin makes no noise when he goes down. Shooting would be too loud." 

"Understood, ma'am." 

As Gunny positioned himself behind the door with a pair of heavy pliers that he had found among the tools Rokneddin had used to connect us to the circuits, I guided Salimi through the room and we took cover near the entrance to the warehouse. 

Not a moment too early. The door opened and Rokneddin stepped back in with the refilled plastic bucket. Gunny placed a precise blow on his head and then dragged him over to where Kourosh was lying, tying them together and gagging them. Then he joined us. 

"What now, ma'am?" he asked in a low voice. 

Somehow I managed to get some order into my spinning thoughts. I turned to Salimi. 

"Are you sure there are only two more guards outside the warehouse?" 

"Yes, ma'am," the tailor answered, his eyes actually gleaming mischievously. He seemed to be gloating that he had fooled the people he detested. I couldn't quite fight my answering grin, neither could Galindez. "From what I gathered," Salimi added, "They didn't even want too many of their own people to know that you were in here. They feared someone might come in and try to kill you right away without getting the information. You know these people tend to act impulsively..." 

"I see," I acknowledged. "Mr. Salimi, could you call them inside, saying you need help with us?" 

"Of course, ma'am." The tailor got up and with the help of his cane walked over to the door, opening it and sticking his head out. While he was addressing the guards, Gunny and I got ready to jump at the men. 

A moment later, the guards, each of them armed with a Kalashnikov, were led into the building by Salimi. As soon as they had passed our hideout, Gunny and I approached them from behind. A few precise martial-arts movements did the trick. We were free. Well, almost, but anyway... 

1823. _Still time to warn the Seahawk._

"Let's get out of here, folks," I ordered bluntly, ignoring the fact that my body was aching all over, causing me heavy fits of nausea. But I didn't have the time to concentrate on that. 

"Yes, ma'am. Excuse me, please, sir." With that, Gunny tossed me Salimi's cane and then lifted the old man up on his shoulder. We would be too slow if we let him walk. 

Looking out from between the doorframe and the door, I could see the Magharis' car just a few yards away. 

_Please, let the doors be open..._

Upon my signal, we rushed over, yanked the doors open, got in and slammed the doors shut again. If anybody was near, they'd have heard us by now. Gunny was sitting in the drivers' seat, hotwiring the vehicle. As soon as the motor came alive, Galindez slammed in a gear and we roared off. 

Another question would be passing the gate. I didn't have my _Chador_, so I only ducked as best I could into the foot space of the right front seat, hoping no one would see me. If the guards hadn't changed ever since we had been brought in, we were in trouble. We could only hope that they had indeed been relieved and that the new ones didn't know yet about Gunny's true identity. 

For the second time today, the little onyx lucky charms on my left wrist worked. First they had sent me an angel in the form of our friend Ahmad Salimi, now they allowed us to pass the guards at the entrance without problems. I sent a prayer heavenward, thanking God - or Allah - for his mercy. 

As soon as we had reached the main road leading northeast, Gunny stepped on the accelerator as if his life depended on it. Salimi and I frantically grabbed for the door handles to somehow keep sitting up straight. 

Now, I finally had the time to get something off my chest that had been lingering there for quite some time. "Mr. Salimi, thank you. You saved our lives and maybe those of a lot more if we're lucky." 

The old man smiled, showing a huge gap between his lower teeth. "You're very welcome, Maryam, Vajih... or what should I call you?" 

"Sarah." 

"Victor." 

Gunny and I had spoken simultaneously. We shared a brief, almost relieved smile. 

"Mr. Salimi, why did you do it?" 

"Sarah, I told you I have lost my faith that my once so beautiful country will ever rise again. So I want to go looking for a better place to spend my last few years, in a society that respects the rights and dignity of all people. Why do you think my English isn't rusty yet although my time in Europe dates decades back?" His smile was almost benign. 

Intrigued, I locked my gaze with his. "That was something I was going to ask you anyway. Your language is almost flawless." 

My compliment seemed to give him enormous pleasure - his smile broadened still more. "Even when the Taliban were in power and it was highly illegal, I always kept my old radio. BBC World was my only link left to the world I loved. Now I'm hoping I might see it again before I die. Allah might be willing to grant me that wish..." he sighed wistfully. 

"You will, Mr. Salimi, I promise." Somehow this little speech had moved me deeply. 

The car's short-wave radio interrupted our conversation. [_"Rokneddin, this is Amal. Do you read me?"_] 

Shame. I motioned for Gunny to pull to a halt at the side of the road. He muffled his speech with the sleeve of his shirt and answered, trying to pitch his voice deeper. 

_"Come in, Amal? I can barely hear you. Just tell me quickly what's on your mind."_

[_"I just wanted to let you know that all is set up down here. Our radar is still inactive. As soon as we get readings of the fighters nearing the river, we'll activate the SAM radar and then we'll have them down in no time. Piece of cake."_] 

_"Got that, Amal. Keep going."_

As soon as Gunny had switched off the radio, I couldn't help swearing loudly. All the previous lightheartedness about our escape had evaporated in an instant. They had radar-guided SAMs waiting for my best friend. And he had no clue. 

"Gunny, speed up! I've got to get in touch with Commander Rabb ASAP! This isn't just a Stinger attack anymore that we've got to warn them of, and that would have been bad enough." 

"I know, ma'am." The frown on Gunny's face matched my own. 

1946 Local - 1516 ZULU  
Near Kadesh  
Afghanistan We had been speeding over the bumpy dirt road for a little more than an hour, but to me it felt like eternity. Every mile brought me closer to the technical facilities I needed to contact Harm but the distance kept dragging and dragging, making me slowly go insane. 

My head was throbbing tremendously, the burn in the pit of my elbow made me want to scream, and the kicks to my belly still made me nauseous. But I willed myself to suck it up. At least the blood on my cheekbone had clotted. Luckily Harm couldn't see me right now. I was convinced I had to be looking like hell. 

All of a sudden, Gunny stepped on the brakes and with screeching tires, we skidded to a halt. Behind me, Salimi woke from his peaceful slumber. 

Gunny was annoyed. "What the hell does this guy think he's doing?" 

A man was standing in the middle of the road, forcing us to stop, waving desperately and motioning to his broken-down car at the side of the road. 

"With your permission, ma'am, I'll just leave the road and pass." 

Just as I was about to agree, something made me look twice and I immediately knew that, despite all that had happened and was still about to happen, this was really turning out to be my lucky day. 

"No, Gunny, come with me. You'll see. It'll only take a minute." 

"But ma'am..." 

"That's an order, Gunny!" 

"Yes, ma'am." 

We climbed out of the car. 

The man stopped his movements and stared at me, a grin spreading over his face. 

"Suzie? Is that really you? Boy, am I glad that you guys showed up. I had a breakdown and in this godforsaken place no one ever stops to help!" 

Gunny shot me a glance. He had understood and I could feel his anger well up just as my own rage had instantly returned upon seeing that man. Everything within me kept screaming 'Vendetta!' 

Kalesky's face took up an even more astonished expression as we approached. "Great God, Suzie, what did your friends do to you?" 

I stopped in front of him. "The same we'll do to you if you pull any stunts, Corporal." 

Kalesky's jaw dropped. "What are you talking about?" 

Gunny couldn't prevent himself from grinning grimly. "That should be 'What are you talking about, 'ma'am'?', Corporal." 

"What the hell..." 

Showtime. 

I signaled to Gunny to apply his police grip to Kalesky's arms and locked my glance with the traitor. My voice was deadly calm. "I'm Lieutenant Colonel Sarah Mackenzie, United States Marine Corps, Chief of Staff to the United States Navy's Judge Advocate General. Lance Corporal Benjamin Kalesky, you're under arrest for desertion, espionage, weapons theft and weapons trading. You have the right to remain silent. Everything you say may be used against you in court-martial. Gunnery Sergeant Galindez, continue reading him his rights in the car. We have a mission to carry out." 

Kalesky's face was now the color of a freshly bleached sheet, but he didn't try to escape because right now, Salimi had gotten out of the car with a gun that he must have found inside. He expertly pointed it at Kalesky's head. "You make a move and you're a dead man." 

With that, Kalesky was pushed onto the backseat beside Salimi. Gunny sat behind the wheel and we drove off again. Five minutes later, we saw the lights of what had to be the Canadian forces' camp outside Kadesh. 

2006 Local - 1536 ZULU  
Canadian forces' camp  
Outside Kadesh  
Afghanistan It had taken me a full ten minutes to get past the guards at the gate and be admitted to the base's CO. Gunny had done his best to help, but two people without any identification whatsoever, not wearing the uniforms that would confirm they really were who they claimed to be, arriving in a car with an Afghan number tag, with two dubious people in tow one of which they claimed was a prisoner - the lieutenant at the gate had needed a few very detailed facts and strong arguments to let us pass and send his colleague over to the car to guard the two men we left outside. 

I could see that I had made some impression on the lieutenant and maybe he even believed me, but in times as these, caution was an absolute necessity. The lieutenant had radioed his CO's quarters and, after a little discussion, got the order to escort the two strangers to his office. 

Gunny and I entered the building and we immediately came to attention in front of the full colonel who commanded the base. 

"Lieutenant Colonel Sarah Mackenzie and Gunnery Sergeant Victor Galindez, United States Marine Corps, sir!" I presented us, only to immediately continue, "Sir, we have information about an ambush set up for a U.S. Navy fighter squadron en route to attack an al-Qaeda camp near Zaranj. We need to contact them ASAP and we need your help to do that." 

The urgency in my voice apparently made Colonel William McTavish take a closer look at my face. His gut seemed to tell him he could trust me but reason made him inquire for further details. "How come you know about the plans, Colonel, and what happened to you?" 

Of course I understood that McTavish had to ask, but my impatience and growing fear threatened to get the better of me. "Gunnery Sergeant Galindez and I were working undercover, sir, infiltrating the al-Qaeda cell," I hurriedly explained. "We need to get the information to the USS Seahawk right now. Our F-14s don't know the terrorists have radar-guided SAMs set up. Please, sir, this might be a matter of minutes!" 

McTavish heaved a sigh, obviously wanting to believe me. "You don't have any ID, Colonel Mackenzie. How do you want them to believe you're not one of them?" 

"Sir," I pleaded desperately, "If you can get me a connection to the Seahawk, I'll find a way to identify myself. Please, sir." 

The Canadian colonel pinched the bridge of his nose, thinking. Then he again took a look at the battered woman in front of him. I could see he was pitying me. 

_Come on, sir, trust your intuition..._

"Lieutenant, get me someone at CENTCOM, Qatar, now." 

_Thank you, Lord!_

The lieutenant instantly made the call. McTavish exchanged a few words with the officer at the other end of the line and finally was passed through to the Seahawk. 

"Captain Johnson? Good evening, this is Colonel McTavish, commander of Princess Patricia's Canadian Light Infantry battle group at coalition base Kadesh. I have a woman here who claims to be a Lieutenant Colonel Sarah Mackenzie and she tells me she needs to pass on urgent information to the leader of the squadron that's right now flying an attack against al Qaeda. I have no means to confirm her identity. What do you suggest we do?" 

I noticed I was chewing my lower lip while the colonel was listening to Johnson's reply. Then he looked at me. "Colonel, the skipper seems to know you but he thinks you might be someone else who got to know the real Colonel Mackenzie at the camp. He's right now trying to contact the squadron leader. He says that the commander might know how to identify you... do you know him?" 

"Yes, I do, he's a JAG lawyer like me. We work together." 

McTavish stared at me. "The U.S. sends lawyers to do the real work? Now that's peculiar." 

Before I needed to come up with an answer to that statement, Johnson obviously addressed the colonel because he listened intently, an expression of utmost astonishment spreading over his features. "Uh... all right, Captain, I'll ask her..." 

Bewildered beyond belief, McTavish turned to me. "Colonel, the skipper says that this Commander Rabb wants to know how much time is still left on your deal. If you can answer correctly, I am to believe you. Do you know what he's talking about?" 

Despite the situation, I had to fight a smile. Trust Harm to come up with something like this. "Yes, sir, I know, and the answer is 426 days." 

Eyebrows up high, McTavish passed on my answer, never taking his eyes off me. A moment later, the colonel's face lit up with a genuine smile and he handed me the receiver. "Colonel Mackenzie, there's someone on the phone for you." 

**Chapter Twelve** 2013 Local - 1543 Zulu  
Approaching the Helmand River Valley  
Afghanistan "She says it's 426 days, sir." 

Relief, swift and overwhelming, washed over me with incredible force. There was no mistaking that response. She was alive, and relatively safe, and the nightmarish scenario that had been haunting me for hours could be laid to rest at last. If I hadn't been strapped securely into the front seat of a fighter aircraft, I might very well have collapsed under the sudden release of that weight. 

Steeling my voice in order to sound presentable over the open comm line, I directed, "Put her through." 

After a moment, the voice that had rung in my ears for so long finally filtered through my headset. "Harm, is that you?" 

It took everything I had not to confess every last thing I'd ever felt for her right then and there. Instead, rational thought automatically took over, and I exclaimed, "Mac! Where are you?" 

"At the 3PPCLI camp at Kadesh. We're safe." 

She started to say something beyond that, but I couldn't even process it. Without a second thought, I blurted out, "God, Colonel, is it good to hear your voice." 

"Same here, Commander." She sounded exhausted, edgy, and reassured all at once. "Listen, Harm, you need to get down below radar tracking altitude, ASAP. They have a SAM battery waiting for you near the Helmand River, and they're keeping the radar off to avoid detection until the last possible second." 

"Understood," I responded, a new kind of adrenaline rising in my throat. This shouldn't have been a surprise. I'd told the others as much only minutes ago. Still, it wasn't expected, and it wasn't comforting news. "Have you got specific coordinates?" 

"I wish I did. Can you handle it?" 

_I sure hope so._ I attempted to smile through my mask, hoping she'd be able to hear it in my voice. "Sure. This is going to make a pretty bad impression, though. This will be the second time this week that an attack of mine was altered with the squadron already airborne." 

I imagined that I could hear her wry grin in reply. "Yeah, I know. Now get down there and watch out for Stingers, okay?" 

"Will do." There was more I wanted to say - much more - but it simply wasn't possible. "Mac - thank you. You always find a way." 

"Believe me, I'm glad I could. Take care." 

"Always. Out." My mind was spinning rapidly as I switched over to the main group frequency. "Echo Flight, this Lead. Hit the deck. _Now._" 

Instantly and without hesitation, four aircraft plunged toward the earth. 

  
************************************* 

  
["Always. Out."] 

Knowing the connection might be needed again, I didn't hang up but only placed the receiver on the table in front of me. Then I suddenly felt my knees buckle and grabbed for the backrest of a nearby chair. Gunny instantly sprinted to my side and helped me sit down. 

"You all right, ma'am?" 

I cast him a feeble smile. "I don't really feel like doing my physical fitness test right now, but thanks. I've been worse." 

"Lieutenant Bowler, fetch some water and a washcloth for the colonel, please," McTavish directed. "Bring them directly to the observation room." 

"Yes, sir." 

McTavish politely offered me his arm. "Colonel Mackenzie? I'm sure you'd like to follow the proceedings from our observation room, right?" 

Thankful for his good intuition, I accepted the offered help and let him guide me to the adjacent building, where I was bid to sit down on a chair next to a radar screen. McTavish handed me a headset and a microphone. "In case Commander Rabb wants another word with you," he said with a slight smile. 

"Thank you so much, sir, I do appreciate that. Umm... sir..." I felt a little uncomfortable about asking anything else, as he had already done so much for me, but I had to. "Sir, might I ask you to help me with something else, please?" 

McTavish actually smiled. "Go ahead, Colonel. Let's see if I can oblige you." 

"Thank you, sir. I have a prisoner and an old friend waiting outside in the car, sir. Right now, your guards are taking care of them but I think it might be easier, especially for the old man, if they were brought in here, too. The Gunny will keep a strict eye on our prisoner." 

"What did he do?" 

"The man's going to be court-martialed for desertion, espionage, weapons trading and weapons theft, sir." 

"That's a whole load," McTavish only remarked, one eyebrow up high. He considered my request for a few brief moments, then called the gate and had Kalesky and Salimi brought over. Conveniently, the guards even supplied Gunny with a pair of handcuffs for the Corporal. 

"Anything else I can do to help, Colonel?" McTavish pulled up a chair and sat down next to me, casting a curious glance at the delicate string of onyx pearls around my wrist that I was working my nervousness off on, incessantly twirling and twisting it with my right hand. 

I met his eyes, finding my worry reflected in his gentle demeanor. "Pray, sir," I only said in a low voice. 

  
*************************************** 

  
Leveling off at four hundred feet, I scanned the blurry landscape below with apprehension. The river was approaching fast enough to make me pretty damn uncomfortable. "Cash, find us an acceptable course deviation - preferably two of them. Let's see if we can come at them from a slightly different direction than they're expecting." 

"Right with you, sir." Already prepared, Cash toggled his mike. "Lead and Two, prepare to break right, heading zero-six-five. Three and Four, left to one-one-zero. Copy?" 

"Copy," came three voices. 

"Map of the earth, boys and girls - follow the foothills. Three ... two ... one ... mark." 

We split up smoothly, the two pairs taking slightly different paths, banking on the chance that the terrorists had set up their ambush directly under our predicted flight path. 

"So are we going SAM hunting, or not?" Bounce wanted to know. 

"Not unless or until they light up," I informed the group. "The SAMs aren't our objective. Having said that, I wouldn't be too depressed if we managed to hit them anyway. I just don't want to walk in the front door. Watcher, you still got our six?" 

"Roger, Lead," came the Hawkeye's commo from their loitering position, back out over the water. "Still quiet, but we've got all eyes and ears on the ground." 

"Good to hear. Hope your reflexes are good, because as soon as they flip on the power, we're gonna need to know about it." 

"Copy that." 

A flash of memory surfaced, and I found myself recalling a conversation with Tom Boone from long ago. 

_"You have to be ready the moment those bastards go active, if not a moment before. They'll probably get off a shot or two, but you've got a technological advantage over them. Your missiles can acquire them faster than theirs can acquire you. But it's only a difference of a few seconds, so if you're asleep at the stick in any way, shape or form, you're in for a very unpleasant day. I almost learned that the hard way once. Fortunately, your dad was a quick son of a bitch."_

Somehow that connection to my father, however tenuous, strengthened my confidence. Thanks to Mac, we were prepared for the threat, and I happened to have a guardian angel with SAM-killing experience. Convenient. 

"Arm your -88s, Echoes," I ordered: I've never been able to make myself call the AGM-88 High-Speed Anti-Radiation Missile by its more conventional name, the HARM. "But don't fire indiscriminately. We're going to need some of that ordnance for the primary target." 

In a motion that undoubtedly mirrored that of my three companions, I held my finger over the pickle button and simply waited. 

  
**************************************** 

  
Monitoring their conversation, it was obvious that Harm was in his element now. For a brief moment I felt that well-known sting again, this 'Will flying ever be second in his heart?' line of thinking that I kept trying to block out whenever he was up there. But it always snuck its way back into my mind. 

As I followed the tiny dots on the radar, one always seeming to blink a little brighter than all the others, I couldn't help replaying our previous conversation in my mind. 

_God, Colonel, is it good to hear your voice._

He had masked his emotions well, but not well enough for me. I had heard this particular tone in his voice before - when he had found me alive in the woods after the poacher's assault, when he had come to get me out of Coster's little sanctuary, when he had learned that I had safely returned from my and Webb's trip to the Afghan mainland during the war. Had he been here, Harm would have all but swept me up in his arms. 

But I could fully second his statement. His first, urgent _"Mac!"_ must have been the most beautiful sound I'd ever heard in my life. It had, all of a sudden, reopened all the roads that, mere hours ago, had already seemed closed forever. It had taken me a superhuman effort to keep up the Marine mask at that moment, exhausted and shaken as I'd already been. 

I wiped my sweaty hands on my pants, trying to keep my breathing steady. They'd have to make contact any time now. Is there anything that's worse than waiting for something dreadful to happen? Suddenly I recalled something Harm had said to me not too long ago. 

_Do I give you nightmares?_

'The hell you do, Commander,' I silently answered his question, 'You can always wake from a nightmare. What you keep doing to me is infinitely worse.' 

"The commander is a close friend, isn't he?" McTavish asked, keeping his voice down. 

I even managed a wry smile. "The best, sir." 

I was sure the colonel understood what was lying beneath the surface but he didn't comment. He only placed his hand on my forearm, squeezing it for a moment, without saying anything. 

Just then, the steady flow of conversation that had been going on among the fighters was interrupted by an urgent call from the Hawkeye. ["Got a flash... active, active, active!"] 

This was it. My fingers cramped around my headset, I bit my lip until I tasted blood and my stomach started doing wild flips as my eyes rested glued on the green screen. I was going crazy, sitting by, unable to assist in any way. 

'Yeah, flyboy, no nightmares. Genuine hell.' 

  
****************************************** 

  
"Got a flash," the Hawkeye reported suddenly. Then, half a second later, "Active, active, active! Tracking at two miles out, bearing - " 

"Got it!" Cash yelled. "Take the shot!" 

"Fox one!" I released a missile, and a moment later, I saw another one come off the rails of Red's jet. From the low altitude, it was only about fifteen seconds before the Hawkeye called, "Impact!" and a flash of fire was visible on the ground below. 

But there was more to that flash than just our attack. "Missiles inbound," Cash said tersely. "Three and Four, they're coming your way." 

So they'd gotten off a couple of shots. Just what we needed. Red and Bounce immediately deployed their chaff and climbed rapidly to evade the missiles, and for once, the tactic worked exactly the way we'd all learned it back in Pensacola. The radar-reflecting chaff diverted the missiles easily, and as they exploded harmlessly over the hills, we all breathed a sigh of relief. One possible disaster averted. 

"Watcher, can you confirm that the site is off-line?" 

"That's affirmative, Lead - they're not transmitting so much as a squeak." 

"Good to hear. Everybody correct back to original flight path and proceed to primary target." I blinked a bead of sweat out of my eye. "Are we still on with Kadesh?" 

"I'm still here, Commander," Mac broke in, having realized the intent of my question. "Nice shooting." 

"Group effort." I changed frequencies so that the rest of the flight didn't have to listen in. The Seahawk and the Canadians were probably going to be rather confused by the upcoming conversation, though. With a few moments to regroup before coming within range of the target, I couldn't help but smile a little. "So, 426 days, huh, Marine?" 

"Of course. It'd take a lot more than a few pissed-off terrorists to mess up my sense of timing." Her voice held a hint of amusement. "I like the way you think, flyboy, but you probably should have asked a question that you actually knew the exact answer to." 

"Shows what you know. I thought the answer was 425 days, that's all." 

There was a moment of surprised silence, and when her voice returned, there was a note of pleased disbelief in it. "You've been keeping track?" 

"It's not too difficult, considering the fact that those government-issued calendars in our office track the number of days in the year. I can add and subtract, you know." 

"Apparently not, since you came up with 425." 

"Can I blame it on the time difference? Pretty soon it'll be tomorrow here, and it'll still be today back home." 

That sentence didn't make a whole lot of sense, but Mac didn't seem bothered. "Next year's a leap year, you know." 

"Really? Damn. I'm never going to get this straight." 

Her laugh, static-filled though it was, warmed my soul. "Get back to work, Echo Lead." 

"Copy that." 

In my mirror, I could see Cash shaking his head. "Do I want to know what happens in 425 or 426 days?" 

"No, you don't," I informed him calmly. "Anything out of the ordinary yet?" 

"Nope, we're clean so far. Target approach in fifteen." 

"All right, time to go. Echo Flight, prepare to start the attack run." 

I squared up on my assigned target and noticed some activity on the ground. From our altitude, it was difficult to make out anything specific, but there were definitely vehicles moving. I descended to investigate. 

"They're bugging out," Cash commented. 

"Yeah, they must know that the ambush failed. Better go put a stop to that. Commence attack ... weapons away." 

Other voices chimed in milliseconds later. "Weapons away." 

Our GPS-guided weapons had their targets already programmed in: now that they were away, I could concentrate on the 'soft' targets presented by the vehicles. 

"Buck, come with me. Textbook strafing run, 250 feet AGL. And don't get in the way of any of the hard targets." 

"Got it." Together, we dove to an altitude of two hundred fifty feet above ground level and switched over to guns. We reached the area at approximately the same time as the missiles we'd previously fired, and the explosions reflected off the canopy to my port side. I couldn't afford to turn my head and see what was left of the targeted buildings, though. I had a line of covered trucks in my sights, and it was clear that they weren't transporting food and medicine. 

Buck went in first, cannon blazing, and we poured a hailstorm of bullets into the truck convoy. Smaller blooms of fire rose into the evening sky, eliciting that strange mixture of satisfaction and sadness that so often accompanied such a mission. Killing an enemy was still killing, and it was hard to take gratification from it, even when the alternative was unacceptable. 

"Incoming!" 

I reacted without a thought, rolling away from the camp and climbing as rapidly as possible. Something streaked by - a Stinger? The first one was a clean miss, but another exploded just under our wing, causing the jet to lurch sickeningly. 

My head slammed back against the seat, hard enough that my vision swam for a brief second. As soon as it passed, I fought to regain control as warning lights began to flash in front of me. Damn it, we'd been so close ... 

"Seahawk, Echo Lead - we've got a little problem here." 

The voice that responded wasn't that of the comm officer: Captain Johnson had apparently stepped in. "How little is your 'little' problem, Lead?" 

"Best guess is not very, sir. Kadesh, are you still on line?" 

"We read you, Echo Lead. What do you need?" 

"Well, if you've got one, I could really use an open runway." 

  
********************************* 

  
_Dear God Almighty..._

I couldn't respond. A sudden flash of cold fear was choking me. Gesticulating wildly, I made the lieutenant step in for me - I didn't have any information on existent or non-existent open runways anyway. 

As everything around me started to fuse into one giant roaring blur, only two things registered in my mind, crystal-clear and merciless: 

If Harm asked for a runway, he was having the mother of all problems up there. 

I had to get out of here, out to where he would land. If he made it back in time. 

Jumping to my feet, I started for the door. I had thrown my headset to the table but I hadn't seen the hook that it was supposed to be hung on. My left wrist brushed past it, though, the string of pearls getting caught. Wanting nothing but to run off, I didn't think about what might be hindering me. I forcefully yanked my arm free - and suddenly a myriad of tiny pearls kept bouncing off the ground, all rolling in roughly the same direction: that of the ventilation shaft covered only by a grille, a few feet away from where I had sat. 

Horror made me freeze for a moment. My lucky charm, my savior, my anchor - gone. I watched the pearls vanish one by one, each taking a little bit of my previous luck and hope with it. 

'Suck it up, Mackenzie, dammit!' 

My vision blurry, I stormed out, only one thought dominating the chaos that was inside me. 

_Harm._

To be continued... 


	7. Chapter 13 and Epilogue

'Collateral Damage' - Conclusion  
Authors: AeroGirl and Daenar  
Disclaimer: See Part One **Chapter Thirteen** 2027 Local - 1557 Zulu  
On approach to 3PPCLI base, Kadesh  
Afghanistan "No pressure in the starboard hydraulic lines." Cash had to raise his voice to be heard over the alert signals, but he was still composed. "How are the control surfaces?" 

"No starboard flaps, but I've still got the rudder, and I can hold our altitude for a while with just port surfaces and a little judicious use of the afterburner." I was locked in a constant battle with the controls - Tomcats simply weren't designed to fly with sections of a wing missing. From the beginning, this bird had been built for power, not grace. Now we were going to absolutely epitomize the nickname "Flying Turkey." 

"Echo Flight, head for home," I ordered the rest of the squadron. "Cash and I will catch up to you after we partake of some Canadian hospitality." 

"Good luck, Lead," Red responded. "Buck, you got 'em?" 

"Aye, ma'am." As the other two fighters made a slow, banking turn back toward the sea, Buck came up alongside our damaged wing. 

"Lieutenant, are you hearing impaired?" I asked him in a clipped tone, most of my focus still on my own flying. 

"Due respect, sir, you didn't think we were gonna leave you without a wingman, did you? If you can't make the airfield and have to punch out, somebody's got to note your position and scare away any unfriendlies down there." 

I sighed, the answer not unexpected. "Buck, if you follow us in, you're not going to have enough fuel to get back to the boat, and this airstrip hasn't been cleared for Tomcats. I don't have a better option, but you do, so I'd suggest taking it." 

"Appreciate the suggestion, sir, but a bumpy landing isn't gonna bother us. Besides, I could really go for a cold Labatt's right about now." 

I had to smile a little at that. "Whatever you say." 

Despite my unorthodox use of thrust - I'd been periodically raising the nose and applying short bursts of afterburner to push us temporarily higher - we were still losing altitude faster than I would have liked. Cash radioed over to the other RIO. "Rocky, check us out, will you? Any kind of damage report you can give." 

"Can't see much, man. You worried about your wheel well being breached?" 

"That's high on the list, but the list is long. We can't drop the gear until the last minute - can't afford the drag. So by the time we find out whether our gear works, we're going to be about fifty feet off the ground." 

"And even if the gear does lock, we might not have brakes," I pointed out grimly. "Kadesh, you've got your runway clear, right? And when I say clear, I mean completely clear." 

"Affirmative, Echo Lead. We've got a barrier net, but we're not very accustomed to deploying it, so be forewarned." 

"Right, because otherwise this would be too easy, wouldn't it?" 

A sudden thought occurred to me: Mac was down there, watching and waiting. If I couldn't put this aircraft down in one piece, she would have a front-row seat for the crash. 

_God, Sarah, I'm so sorry..._

For an instant, I thought I could hear her voice in reply, and I wondered if she'd gotten back on the radio. But I couldn't quite make out her words, and once I realized that it was only in my mind, I had no choice but to put it aside and concentrate on the upcoming landing. Flipping a switch near my left hand, I changed the ejection to rear-seat command. "Ejection's all yours, Cash." 

"Not planning on needing it, sir. Kadesh, we're coming in on final approach." 

_Here goes nothing._ "Gear down." I pulled the handle and felt the slight vibrations as the landing gear descended from the nose and both sides of the fuselage. Three lights illuminated simultaneously, and I breathed a little easier. "Everything's locked. Rocky, how's our tire situation?" 

"Looks to be intact, sir. Good luck." 

The aircraft lurched again: aerodynamic ground effect was playing havoc with our not-so-aerodynamic wing. I pulled the nose up to flare out for landing and soon felt the wheels strike the runway with an uneven jolt. We settled unsteadily onto both sets of wheels, and I applied the brakes with a fervent prayer for them to function. 

Even as the nose gear contacted the pavement, we began to skid sideways. The starboard brakes were squishy at best, but the port brakes had caught immediately, sending us off-balance. I eased up on them and applied the rudder hard, hoping to straighten us out. It only partially worked. 

Our speed was decreasing, but not fast enough. "We're going off-road," I told Cash curtly. "Hang on." 

As soon as the nose gear ran off the edge of the runway into the dirt, the aircraft took a jarring bounce, and I saw stars again - and finally, miraculously, we slowed to a stop, still upright and intact. 

Neither of us moved for a moment, still trying to grasp the fact that we'd gotten down safely. A voice crackled over the radio. "Echo Lead, welcome to Kadesh." 

I was still clearing my vision, so Cash responded for us. "Much appreciated." 

Slowly, I pried my fingers off the throttle and stick. "Tell me you weren't half a second away from punching us out," I prodded my RIO. 

"You'll never know, will you?" he replied innocently. 

As Buck and Rocky came in for a much calmer landing, I popped the canopy, and we climbed down out of our ailing jet. Both of us yanked off our helmets at the first available opportunity and drank in the first fresh air we'd had in hours. A support truck made its way across the tarmac to us, pulling up alongside and spilling out a throng of flight line personnel to secure the aircraft and its remaining weapons. 

The pounding in my head abruptly increased, and rather than risk an embarrassing stumble, I quickly dropped to one knee, waiting for it to pass. The perils of flying without the benefit of my own form-fit helmet. The borrowed one hadn't fit perfectly, and thanks to that Stinger-induced jolt a few minutes ago, I was paying for the difference. Of course, in retrospect, I'd been spending a fair portion of the last couple of days worrying when I should have been eating and sleeping, which probably hadn't helped matters. But there wasn't much to be done about that now. 

My gaze trained on the ground, I noticed a pair of black boots moving toward me at a rapid pace. "I'm all right - just give me a minute," I muttered, closing my eyes. 

Then I felt a hand on my shoulder, and from that simple contact, recognition instantly set in. As I looked up, she knelt down in front of me with an expression of concern. 

An indescribable feeling of wonder swept over me at that moment. With the runway lights illuminating her from one side, I could see the horrible bruises that marred her graceful features, and she was holding one arm tightly to her body, betraying further pain. Through dark eyes reddened either by tears or the harsh winds, she captured and held my gaze. 

She was a goddess. A vision. And suddenly I could breathe, really breathe, again. 

I pulled her into my arms without a word, trying to be gentle but at the same time desperate to show her the magnitude of my relief. After a measureless time spent holding onto each other in silence, giving and receiving support, I offered the understatement of the year. "Good to see you, Marine." 

"You, too." Her voice was partly muffled by the collar of my flight suit, where she'd buried her nose against my neck. It was a wonderfully natural act, but also a more intimate one than just about any I could remember between us. This wasn't Sarah Mackenzie trying to project strength to the outside world. This was Sarah Mackenzie simply _being_ strong, just by being unafraid to care. 

"You sure you're okay?" she asked. 

"Yeah, I just smacked my head. Forget about me. What did those bastards do to you?" 

"It's okay. I eventually gave as good as I got. You don't have to go back and kill them again." 

I pulled back to examine her, both out of worry for her injuries and out of a desire to absorb all I could of her presence. "Have you seen a doctor yet?" 

"That would have required me to leave the operations center. You can imagine why I wouldn't have wanted to do that." Mac held very still as I traced her cheek with my fingers. I'm sure my eyes must have betrayed my feelings, but for the first time, I didn't care. In fact, I welcomed it. 

She flinched every so slightly under my unwavering gaze. "Harm, I'm all right," she said quietly. "Those guys are never going to hurt anyone ever again, thanks to you." 

"I wasn't alone." 

"No, you weren't." She reached up to cover my hand with her own. "You never are." 

"Neither are you." I wanted to say more, but couldn't make the words come out. This time, though, there were too many words racing around in my head, rather than too few. So I simply continued to stare. 

Mac ducked her head self-consciously. "All right, I know I look like death warmed over. You don't have to keep looking at me." 

If she was trying to offer me a way out, it was useless. I didn't want a way out. Ever again. Before I knew it, I was answering. "If I could get away with it, I'd never look at anything else." 

At that, a brilliant light shone in her eyes, and suddenly it was so clear. We understood each other, fully and completely, and I could see that the thought that had sustained me throughout this entire ordeal was the same thought that had sustained her. 

"We have a few things to talk about, don't we?" 

"You could say that. But it probably ought to wait until after we debrief and get you checked out." I got to my feet and helped Mac up as gently as possible, reluctant to release her even after she was standing on her own two feet. "No longer than that, though." 

In response, she leaned up on her toes and delivered a kiss that will forever be imprinted on my memory. 

When we finally broke apart, I swallowed hard and quipped, "Not in front of the plane crew, ninja-girl." 

"Oh, screw 'em." 

I couldn't have agreed more. I slipped an arm around her waist and steered her toward the truck that had brought her out. Halfway there, a thought struck me. "You know, I'm starting to think that there's more to this mental connection between us than I realized." 

Mac turned, lifting an eyebrow. "How's that?" 

"When I was coming in to land, and I knew you were down here, I was thinking about how sorry I was that you had to go through all this ... and I swear I heard your voice." 

"Yeah? What did I say?" 

"That's the thing. Either I heard it wrong, or it wasn't English. It sounded like 'Anna-shay,' or - " 

She stopped walking. "Anusheh?" 

"That's it." When her eyes filled with tears, my heart immediately sank. "But like I said, the odds of me being wrong - " 

"You weren't." She gave me a smile that lit up the night. "It's a name. It means 'fortunate.'" 

"I guess that's appropriate, but I'm still confused." 

"It's a long story." 

"But it's a long story that you're going to explain to me at some point, right?" 

She leaned against me, and I had to say a silent prayer of thanks - for this moment, and for all those that were certain to follow. 

"Let's put it this way. If I believed in fate, I'd still have about 426 days to explain it to you." 

**Epilogue** 25 months later  
2144 ZULU  
Rabb residence  
Falls Church, VA Surely Harm was convinced that I was asleep. 

But I wasn't. For the past 42 minutes I had been quietly lying in my deckchair, enjoying the sun that bathed our backyard in a warm afternoon light, through my eyelashes observing the two people that meant most to me in the world. 

My husband and my daughter. 

Mary, as we called her. Maryam Anusheh Rabb. When we announced to our friends the name we had chosen for our little girl, people were, well, stunned. I could still hear Jen's reaction: "Colonel, you want your daughter to have your cover name? And, what's more, that of the very mission where you and the commander might easily have ended up killing each other?" 

"Actually, no," I had answered with an open smile, disarming her and everyone else present, "It's my grandmother's middle-name." 

"Oh..." 

I hadn't commented on Mary's middle-name at all. Harm's and my psychic link was only for us to know about. 

Then people had asked what the names meant. Rather than give the full translation, I chose to reply that somehow, the name seemed to create a tentative link between two yet hostile cultures, implying the hope that my little girl wouldn't have to face a future of constant war against al Qaeda and its worldwide consorts. Harm and I simply wanted our daughter to be 'Mary, the fortunate.' 

From the way I saw Harm interact with the tiny creature in his arms, I could have bet that he didn't have a clue that he was being watched. Sure, he had come a long way when it came to showing his feelings. Two years ago, it had taken a near-disaster to make him open up. By the by he had grown easy around me, knowing I was with him for good. He didn't feel the need anymore to keep up the hero façade at all cost. But he was still reluctant to become too openly emotional when anyone was near, even me. I couldn't blame him - for decades this had been his true self. Seeing that he was trying to change was enough for me. Every little step he took was taken in the right direction. 

Mary was clumsily reaching for Harm's index finger that was gently tickling the tip of her nose. The tall, broad-shouldered fighter-jock was totally engrossed in observing his daughter, smiling at her, making funny faces, reacting to her movements... in short, he was wrapped around her finger and completely oblivious to his surroundings. I could have gone on watching the display for hours. 

The doorbell broke the spell, though. "I'll go get it," I immediately told him, getting up and revealing that I hadn't been sleeping at all. The veranda door closed behind me before Harm even had the time to blush in my presence. I knew he'd appreciate a moment of quiet to regain his star-lawyer dignity. 

"Who is it?" I called as I approached the front door. 

_"Delivery for Mrs. Goshtasbi."_

With a wide grin, I opened. "Gunny, you made it!"" 

Obviously resisting his fleeting instinct to draw back, Galindez heartily returned the bear hug I engulfed him in. "As you see..." 

"Please, come in!" 

Gunny's smile turned a little guilty. "I'm sorry, ma'am, I can't. Jen Coates is expecting me at 1800 at Tiner's for a little last-minute organizing and I'd better not keep my future fellow godparent waiting. I'm only glad we weren't delayed." 

I sharply looked at him, curious. "We, Gunny? Who's 'we'?" 

"Uh... I had some time in London, waiting for my connecting flight, so I thought I might just bring a friend..." Gunny turned his head to the right in an exaggerated gesture. I followed his glance - and couldn't believe my eyes. 

"Did anyone from this household order a tailor-made christening robe?" Ahmad Salimi stepped forward, smiling mischievously, holding a parcel. "I hope my presence won't create any inconveniences." 

After a few seconds of stunned silence, I finally found my voice. "Of course not! Mr. Salimi, it's so good to see you! How are you?" Not knowing how an old British gentleman of Muslim upbringing would react to being hugged by a much younger woman, I only shook his hand, but I did it with all the warmth that was in me. 

Then I stuck my head back in. "Harm!" 

The creaking of the wooden floor told me that my husband was already on his way. 

Salimi seemed genuinely flattered by my warm welcome. "Oh, please, that's Ahmad to you, Sarah. When Victor called me and told me about his idea to join him for his soon-to-be godchild's christening, I found this would be the perfect occasion to give you something that I've been wanting to give you for a long time. Hello, Commander." 

Indicating that Mary had fallen asleep in his arms, Harm in a low voice greeted our friends and then proudly presented his daughter. Salimi's grin grew exuberant, letting show the gap between his lower teeth. _"Hello Maryam,"_ he murmured in Farsi, bending slightly over the little girl, _"I'm your Abu Ahmad."_

"Where will you be staying, Ahmad?" 

"Victor's friend agreed to accommodate us both, this Petty Officer... uh..." 

"We'll be at Tiner's, ma'am," Gunny cut in. "And don't worry," he added with a slight grin, "Jen Coates has already offered to help him out a little." 

"I see." 

"Sarah," Salimi now addressed me, handing me the little package, "We will be late to arrive at Mr. Tiner's house if we don't leave now. But first I wanted you to have a look at this." 

"That's so sweet, but you didn't need to..." 

Salimi gently patted me on the cheek. "Of course I needed to. Afghan tradition meets British education. Have a look." 

Chuckling slightly, I removed the delicate tissue paper, only to draw a deep breath. "Oh, my God... this is beautiful." 

I held in my hands a simple ivory-white christening robe in the finest cotton. There weren't any laces or frills on it, but something else that made me smile wistfully: on the chest, tiny onyx pearls formed a perfect circle around an Alpha and Omega, artfully embroidered in ivory-white thread. 

"I couldn't bring myself to choose snow-white," Salimi's voice was actually apologetic. "I'm sure you know that white is the Muslim color of mourning. But I can assure you of one thing, Sarah: the pearls are yours." 

I was overwhelmed. This was so perfect, unpretentious yet beautiful, and it came from the heart. "Where did you find the pearls?" was all I managed to say, my voice slightly shaky. 

"Right at the observation room of the Canadian base," Salimi explained. "You were so desperately worried about the commander and at the same time so shocked when you ripped that little chain that you'd been clinging to all night as if it were an anchor... I could see in your eyes that on the one hand you absolutely needed to get out to the runway, but on the other hand you seemed to be thinking that letting the small pearls roll out of reach would be like letting your lifetime's happiness slip away. So when you decided that the urge to get out was stronger, I convinced the Canadian lieutenant who was with us to open the ventilation shaft and get out at least those pearls that had caught on the smaller grille beneath. Half of the chain is lost, though, I'm sorry." 

Impulsively, I hugged my old friend, not caring now if he might think it proper or not. After a short moment, I felt him return the hug in a slightly shy but not uncomfortable manner. "Ahmad, you have no idea how much this means to me." 

Just a little embarrassed, Salimi somewhat indistinctly waved his hand. "Awww, it was the least I could do. After all, you were about to make my dream of returning to London come true. I've been contemplating ever since in what way I'd give the pearls back to you. As I said, this was just the perfect occasion." Salimi's voice had sobered a little. "Your daughter will be baptized to the name of Jesus, wearing a dress that bears visible proof of Allah's blessing. She may be a child of the first generation that will see our faiths and societies coexist in peace and understanding. That is why I wanted her to have this robe." 

All our glances were focused on the girl's tiny, relaxed face as it rested against Harm's broad chest. The olive tan of her eyelids was hiding the stunning blue of her eyes that had as yet refused to show any signs of turning into brown. Maybe they never would. 

I leaned against my husband's side, putting my arm around his waist. "I would be glad to know that she'll grow up in a world where young people everywhere decide to build their future, not bomb themselves to death." My voice was thoughtful as I took in the innocent expression on my child's features. "If we want to spare her what we had to go through, then we'll have to make her courageous enough to start building bridges." 

Once again, a benign, sage smile tugged at the corners of Salimi's mouth. "Don't ask me what makes me so sure but I can see that happening. Knowing her parents, I know she will make this world a little better." 

Never looking up at us, Harm gently smoothed Mary's dark hair with his right hand. "Amen to that," he said softly. 

THE END A few people have expressed uncertainty as to which author wrote which character in this story, so we thought we'd try to clear things up. It goes like this: AeroGirl works with jets for a living, while Daenar works with words for a living. Therefore, AG wrote the character who spent his time in the air, while Dae wrote the one who used her language skills (among other things!) so effectively. In the unlikely event that anyone is *still* unsure about the concept, just consider this: AG is a proud member of the HarmyBoard. ;-) 


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